Happy Holmes-days
by Domina Temporis
Summary: I'm taking part in Hades Lord of the Dead's December prompts this year! Yay! A user-submitted prompt, one a day for the whole month. I'll do my best to keep up with them! All will be gen and platonic, as usual.
1. Chapter 1

I'm doing Hades Lord of the Dead's December prompts this year too! Here's the first one - A Long, Tedious Journey, submitted by KnightFury

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><p>"I must say, this is getting tedious," I remarked to Holmes, as we sat among our things in yet another train station, the third in about five days. This particular station was somewhere in Germany, and we still had several days journey in front of us before we reached our destination of Moscow.<p>

Sherlock Holmes never took his eyes off our fellow travelers, his gaze unfocused as he undoubtedly deduced their life stories within seconds. Still, he scoffed and said, "_Getting _tedious, Watson? This journey has been little else since it began."

"Well, you were the one who decided to take a case in St. Petersburg," I said reasonably.

"The criminal classes in London were positively overwhelming in how disappointing they have been this winter," Holmes answered airily.

"So you were bored already," I said flatly. "I didn't think there was any other reason why a man would choose to journey into the heart of Russia in February. Even Napoleon had more sense than that."

Holmes surprised me by laughing aloud - in his more difficult moods, his reactions could be unpredictable at best, and I folded up the newspaper I had been attempting to read. "What is this case, again? You told me very little about it."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders, "I know very little myself. Only that a member of the Russian aristocracy heard of me through my service to the German crown and wished my help recovering some lost family papers that were, I believe, connected with the reign of Catherine the Great. Aside from that, you know it is a mistake to theorize before having all the facts in hand," he sighed in disappointment and leaned back against the station building. "I only hope the Russian criminals are more enterprising than our English ones."

"You had better hope this trip remains dull," I said darkly. "With Russia's unstable politics, it could become dangerous very quickly."  
>"Could it really?" Holmes asked, interest lighting up his austere features. I assumed he was teasing me, until I remembered that politics did not fall under his purview as a subject he considered important, and he probably <em>was <em>unaware of Russia's political situation. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes; Holmes was the foremost genius in his field, but the gaps in his knowledge were, at times, a trial.

"Yes, Holmes, for heaven's sake, all Europe has been discussing the plight of the Russian peasants. They are little more than serfs, you know," I said. Seeing his eyes glaze over with disinterest, I hastily changed the subject. "I saw a small souvenir shop on the other end of the station, perhaps we should see what it has to offer?"

Holmes got up wordlessly, with the air of it being a great inconvenience to him, but followed me to the small shop, where I searched in vain for a novel to read for the rest of the journey. "They're all in German," I said sadly.

"What did you expect to find in Germany?" Holmes asked waspishly.

"Well, I finished the one I brought with me two days ago," I said. Indeed, I had done little else for the first three days of the journey, I was so engrossed in the story.

"You read altogether too quickly," Holmes said, scanning the German newspapers for reports of any sensational crime. I debated for a few moments asking Holmes to translate one of the German novels aloud for me, knowing his German was far superior to mine, but the memory of the few times he had read any kind of fiction was enough to put that idea to rest. Holmes had an insatiable need to point out every plot hole and nonsensical idea, and while this was occasionally entertaining, in a small train carriage for five days straight, it might get old.

"Watson, come, our train is here," Holmes said, looking out the window.

"Yes, yes, I'll be there," I said, picking out a small, travel-sized chess set and paying for it. "Something to do on the train," I answered Holmes's unspoken question.

"You hate chess," he remarked finally, when we had taken our seats in the train compartment.

"I hate _losing _at chess," I corrected. "Which is what always happens, at least when I play against you." Holmes smiled smugly - in our nearly ten years of friendship, I had not managed to last more than fifteen moves against him, and I continued. "But you are not the only one who gets bored, Holmes. This train journey is about three times longer than it needs to be."

"I'll play without my queen, if it will make it easier," Holmes offered, setting up the game eagerly.

I need hardly say that it did not; I still lost in twelve moves, and after the third game, we mutually decided that perhaps it was best if Holmes and I never played chess again. I took out my notes on the last case we had solved together, trying to decide if it would make a suitable story, while Holmes stared out the window, apparently fascinated by the countryside.

After about an hour, I looked up. This story would be devilishly difficult to write up, what with promises of secrecy given to the participants, and I was on the verge of giving it up. "Are we still in Germany?" I asked, more harshly than I intended.

"No, I believe we crossed into Poland about twenty minutes ago," Holmes answered mildly. "I did not think that case would be easy writing as a story."

"You knew I was writing up the case of Lord P-'s diamond?" I asked, my eyes widening. It struck me that I probably should not be so surprised anymore by Holmes's tendency to read my thoughts, but it always took me by surprise. I believe he enjoyed the reaction.

He shrugged in return, "It was an easy enough deduction. You have been involved in few of my cases since your marriage; Lord P-'s diamond was the only one unusual enough to merit recording."

I sat back, saying peevishly, "Well, perhaps this Russian case will provide more features of interest." The countryside flying past our window was flat and covered in snow, and was likely to stay that way until we reached St. Petersburg in three days time. I sighed; it was truthfully very easy to see why Holmes was so bored.

"I certainly hope so," Holmes said, brightening considerably. "I must say, Watson, you seem almost as bored as I am."

"Well, look at it," I said, gesturing outside. "We're going to be looking at that for the next three days. This is the first case I have taken with you in several months time, and it's already turning out as boring as-" I broke off, but Holmes caught my eye, giving me a shrewd look.

"Is your medical practice not satisfactory, Watson? When I said you were bored, I did mean for longer than just this journey."

I sighed, knowing that now he was on this thought process, I wouldn't be able to get out without giving him an answer. "No, it is going very well. It is a decent living, and it gives me a great sense of meaning. It just is not as...exciting, as perhaps I would - not wish, since when medicine is exciting it usually comes with a high death toll, but - oh, I don't know," I finished irritably. I had always wanted to be a doctor, from my earliest childhood, but the absence of Holmes and his cases had thrown into sharp relief how utterly _routine _my life was these days. I found myself thinking longingly of the days when an all-night vigil at a kidnapper's lair meant little to me, whereas now, I was ordinarily unable to take more than one case every few months. I smirked, "I expect that is why Mary encouraged me to go with you. I doubt I have been very good company these last few weeks."

Holmes smiled, and had he been another man, might have said something about how he was grateful I had, but emotional displays were Holmes's weakest point, and in any case, it did not matter. "I expect Mrs. Hudson was glad to be rid of you for a time as well," I continued slyly.

Holmes burst out laughing, "Yes, you are probably right. She has been looking remarkably angry these last few days, and I can only assume it has something to do with my reorganizing of my criminal relics. She seems to object to finding knives under the carpets and poison sachets in the breadbox."

However bored I was at the moment, I still breathed a silent sigh of relief that I was not at Baker Street for this. I was not yet so desperate that I wanted to be on the lookout for hidden knives in my own home, although from the look on Holmes's face, the concept of a knife-free home was completely alien to him.

"Shall we head to the dining car?" Holmes asked, after several minutes silence. "It will help to pass the time, and no doubt our new traveling companions will offer some entertaining deductions."

I smiled in spite of myself. Holmes was rather famous, among the two of us, at least, for his entertaining deductions of ordinary people; an example of his sarcastic sense of humor that I kept out of my public records of our cases. I was, at least, assured an entertaining meal, and resolved to thank Mary for insisting I accompany him. A dull case was nothing compared to a dull winter at home, and as we laughed quietly together over our fellow passengers, I believe he felt the same.


	2. Chapter 2

I had written out this whole story on my phone at work, and was literally one line away from being finished when I must have pressed the exact right combination of buttons to make it disappear forever. So I came home and rewrote it, and I really hope it's not completely awful because I did it really quickly and I wasn't in the best mood.

Prompt: Up North, from Garonne

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><p>Mycroft frowned as a loud thud interrupted his study hour. He always studied advanced mathematical theories on his own after luncheon, and everyone knew not to disturb him in any way. He went into the sitting room, finding his brother sitting in a heap in front of the main fireplace, covered in ashes. He was peering into the flue, apparently perplexed over something. Mycroft cleared his throat, looking around at the ashes that had spread themselves around the carpet. He suspected this might be enough to make the maid up and quit, although she wouldn't be the first. This might be unusual in the homes of other gentry families, but for the Holmes's, this was fairly tame.<p>

"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock whirled around.

"Climbing up the chimney," the almost ten-year-old answered. To Mycroft, who had never climbed so much as a tree even in his young childhood, this answered none of his questions.

"Why in heaven's name would you want to do something like that?"

"Posy says Father Christmas comes down the chimney with a great sack full of toys," Sherlock said. "But I've tried every chimney in the house, and I can't fit in them. If I can't fit, how can a grown-up man with a giant sack fit? The entire story simply doesn't make sense."

Mycroft bit back a laugh, seeing how earnest Sherlock's face looked. He didn't consider Posy, the gardener's seven year old daughter, as the most reliable source, but every child had to learn sometime that Father Christmas wasn't real, and perhaps if Sherlock figured it out for himself, it would soften the blow slightly.

"I'm going to make a project of it," Sherlock continued oblivious to Mycroft's thought process. "Use my reasoning, like you and Master Allan told me." Master Allan, tutor to both the Holmes boys, was to be commended, Mycroft thought. Both for not running screaming from their household, and for encouraging the unique talents and interests of both his charges.

"Good for you," Mycroft said. "Remember to keep an open mind, and overlook none of the facts. You know what a mistake that would be." Sherlock nodded gravely, and Mycroft headed back upstairs, his mind back on mathematics.

Two days later, as he was walking past the study, Mycroft heard Sherlock anxiously questioning Master Allan about reindeer. "Do they really weigh about three hundred pounds?"

"Yes, they do," the tutor answered.

"So," Sherlock said, and Mycroft could picture his face screwed up in concentration, "they'd have to run pretty fast if they were to fly, wouldn't they?" To Master Allan's credit, he didn't declare the idea preposterous. Instead, he answered seriously, "Well, yes. And they can only run about fifteen miles per hour."

'Oh," Sherlock said, sounding disappointed. "So they couldn't go fast enough, even if the wind were helping them along?"

"I'm afraid not." Mycroft smiled to himself and went on his way. At least if Sherlock was occupied with an intellectual problem, he wouldn't be dissecting any unfortunate rodents from the kitchens, or mixing some noxious chemical compound.

A week later, as Mycroft was on his way to post a letter, he passed Sherlock in the stables, measuring the family sleigh. The groom was watching him with amusement, and Mycroft stopped outside the door.

"I read that if humans wanted to fly, our wings would each have to be six feet long," Sherlock said. "How big would the wings have to be to lift the sleigh?"

"Ah, lad, so big they wouldn't be able to lift themselves, much less the sleigh," the groom said kindly. Sherlock frowned and measured out from the side of the sleigh until he reached the wall. He sighed.

"It wouldn't fit in the carriage house, would it?"

"I'm afraid not, lad," the groom said. Mycroft quickly headed off before Sherlock left and found him there. He came across Sherlock several times over the next few days, studying books Mycroft hadn't even known they owned about the various ways men had tried to fly over the centuries. His brows were always furrowed, and he seemed completely engrossed.

"Mycroft, Mycroft!" Sherlock ran up to him, carrying a huge map after him. "I was right! Father Christmas can't possibly travel around the whole world in one night."

"Well, of course not," Mycroft said. "He has a whole day, because as the Earth turns round the sun, it becomes night in other parts of the world."

"No, no," Sherlock said, discarding the information as useless. "Even if he had a whole day, he'd still have to go faster than the fastest train. It's impossible to travel that fast and still stop to give each child gifts. It's just not possible." He smiled, elated, then frowned. "But then why do so many people believe in him? It just doesn't make sense for so many people to believe in the same falsity." He gathered up the map and went back to the study, forgetting Mycroft was there.

By the next week, Mycroft had quite forgotten about Sherlock's quest to disprove the existence of Father Christmas until he found himself being shaken awake in the middle of the night. He groaned and pulled the quilt over his head until he heard his mother's voice.

"Mycroft, wake up! Sherlock's missing!" Mycroft shot awake instantly, pulling on his clothes over his pajamas. By the time he reached the sitting room, though, no one seemed aware of his presence. His mother was sitting on the sofa, looking dazed. Her lady's maid was next to her, gently patting her shoulder. Mr. Holmes was pacing the room, obviously angry but unsure where to direct it. Every so often, he would shoot a question at Master Allan, who was sitting on an armchair, a worried expression on his face. Mycroft looked around the room, making sure he wouldn't be missed. He knew where Sherlock had gone, or at least he thought he did. He quickly saddled one of the family horses himself, surprised he still knew how to do it after all these years, and headed to the train station.

He found the ticket master closing up the place, and ran to meet him. "Excuse me; did a young boy come here tonight? He's about ten years old, tall for his age but very thin, with black hair."

The ticket master smiled widely, "Sure did! I almost didn't sell him a ticket, thinking a young lad like that shouldn't be on his own, but he said he was used to traveling on his own, and he was meeting his family. He handed over the money quick as you please, and I sent him on the last train to York."

"Thank you!" Mycroft gasped, running back to the horse. He didn't know who to be angrier with, the ticket master for selling a train ticket to an unaccompanied (almost) ten year old, or Sherlock, for his infernally good acting ability. In any case, being angry would get him nowhere. He had to get to York in enough time, or who knew where Sherlock would end up.

He reached York while it was still dark out, and ran to the train station. Trains were much more frequent here, and it was likely that Sherlock had already found the one he was looking for. To Mycroft's relief, however, the only person sitting in York's train station was the small form of his brother, clutching a small bag and a notebook.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft said in relief, sitting down next to him. "What on earth did you think you were doing? Everyone was terribly worried."

"I'm going up north," Sherlock said determinedly. "I'm going to find some proof that Father Christmas either does or doesn't exist."

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Sherlock, the effort you put into figuring out problems is admirable, but you cannot go off on train journeys all over the country."

"I had enough money!" Sherlock protested. "I've saved all the coins Cook ever gave me for stirring pots." Mycroft tried his hardest not to laugh. Sherlock was still a child, underneath it all.

"Where were you going to go?"

"Inverness," Sherlock answered sheepishly. "It was as far north as I could get. I would have figured out how to get the rest of the way."

"I have no doubt you would have," Mycroft said, picking up his brother's bag and leading them back to the horse. "But we do have to return home. There will be time enough for adventures, Sherlock. Should you still want them, that is." For himself, he could never see the point when life at home was so pleasant, but Sherlock was always so reckless.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked quietly on the ride back. "There is no Father Christmas, is there?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't think he's real," Sherlock said with an air of finality. "I looked at all the facts and they don't make sense."

"Then what makes sense must be the truth," Mycroft said as they entered the gate to their house. "Does it bother you? Some children are."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I like things that are real. There's no need for fanciful stories."

Mycroft smiled. Spoken like a true Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3

Prompt: Someone discovers a need for glasses, from Lucillia

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><p>I entered the cottage quietly, so as not to disturb Holmes. In retirement, he and I had become even lazier than in our years at Baker Street, and while I usually took a morning walk around ten in the morning, he was not even awake until sometime past eleven o'clock. I shut the door, and to my surprise, found Holmes quite awake and smiling at me from his armchair.<p>

"Good morning, Watson. I must say, you do not usually venture so far as the beach on your morning jaunts. If you had awakened me, I would have liked to join you. It is a beautiful morning," he remarked.

I fancied that over the years I had become adept at tracing Holmes's deductions back, but I must confess I had no idea what he was talking about. In response to my questioning look, he motioned to my coat sleeve. "The chalk dust, Watson. Only on the beach can one smear chalk dust in exactly that manner." He was, I realized, referring to the beach about a mile from the cottage, which jutted out from chalk cliffs. In this, he was correct; if one walked along the cliffs in a certain way, one could not help but smear chalk all over one's clothes.

"This?" I asked, holding up my sleeve. "I didn't go to the cliffs, Holmes. I brushed up against the farthest beehive; the one you painted yesterday. The paint is still wet; I got it all over my clothes."

"Oh," he said, eyes widening for a moment. I could not remember the last time he had been mistaken in a deduction, much less about me. Our habits were so well known to each other that oftentimes he did not even have to deduce me; it was simple knowledge. Still, he had never claimed perfection, and it was a small thing. He brushed it off quickly and asked instead if I would be willing to accompany him into town to pick up a shipment of books that had arrived at the post office.

I thought nothing more of it until some weeks later, when I came downstairs to find Holmes laying on the settee, squinting at an immensely large book. No doubt it was on some arcane subject such as medieval music notation or the symbiotic relationship between bees and mosquitoes, and I hastily went to the door, so that he would not start discoursing about it to me. But as I walked past, I noticed he was holding the book out rather far and looking annoyed. "Holmes?" I asked.

"What is it, Watson?" He sounded irritated, and I waited patiently, knowing he would begin to explain out of his own frustration. I was not disappointed. "I think they are purposefully making the typeface in academic texts smaller. I can't even read it with holding out at arm's length!" He demonstrated, then looked up at me, exasperated.

I took the book from him and leafed through the pages. The type seemed no smaller to me than other academic texts, although I found I had to pull my glasses from my pocket to read it. _Of course_, I thought. A flash of intuition – do not let Holmes tell you I have none, I certainly _do – _and I stifled my laughter in my hand.

"What?" Holmes asked, getting more annoyed and standing up. "Watson, it is not funny!"

"It certainly is, Holmes," I said. "Stand there." I moved across the room to the fireplace and asked, "Where was I this morning? It should be a simple deduction."

Holmes squinted at me, and I helpfully turned around slowly so he would have a fair amount of data. "Well?" I asked.

He looked me over, then said, "Your morning walk, as usual. But somewhat longer today, or else you would not have the start of that sunburn. You walked into town to pick up the weekly newspaper." He smiled satisfactorily.

He was still Sherlock Holmes, even if his eyes were not quite what they used to be. Everything was correct, except for my destination. "Almost right, Holmes," I said, pointing to a spot of mud on my shoes that he had missed. "But I didn't go to town. I walked into the fields, to see the last of the spring flowers before they disappear." The mud was dark and muddy after the rain last night. Holmes turned white as a sheet and came closer, kneeling down on the floor until he found the mud on my shoes.

"How could I have missed that?" he berated himself. "It is as plain as day! Stop laughing, Watson!"

"Holmes," I said, swallowing the giggles with difficulty. He did look remarkably like a child who has been told they cannot have dessert. "I think you might need glasses."

"I do not," he said heatedly. "I can see perfectly well, and I cannot have the bother of remembering to put them on and take them off all the time."

"So it's better not to be able to see?" I asked. "Come, Holmes, even for you, that is stubborn. It is perfectly natural for one's eyesight to decrease as one ages."

"Yes, but mine is not!" he said with an air of finality.

"Holmes, I am a doctor," I said patiently. "I don't make up diagnoses. Will you at least agree to go see the optometrist? It certainly cannot do any harm."

I had to drag Holmes to the optometrist, where the poor young man was so in awe at having to give Sherlock Holmes an eye exam, I half expected him to say Holmes's eyesight was perfectly fine regardless of the test results. But after Holmes proved unable to read the majority of the eye chart correctly, even he seemed to realize the necessity of glasses. He picked out a small pair that had the effect of making his austere features and hawk-like nose appear even longer and thinner. I suspected he rather wanted to appear intimidating.

Of course, that effect can never take place if he continues losing them. I believe the majority of our conversations these days begin with Holmes yelling, "WATSON! Where are my glasses? I cannot find them anywhere."

It appears that we have finally found a mystery Sherlock Holmes cannot solve.

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><p>AN I love the retirement years.


	4. Chapter 4

Prompt: Latin, from Lucillia (I adored this prompt by the way, I had such fun actually using all the Latin I had to study).

A/N: See the end of the story for translation notes All the Latin aside from the last two lines comes from Caesar's _History of the Gallic Wars._

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><p><em>Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres...*<em>

John Watson sighed and tried to bring his thoughts back to his schoolwork. It was about the fifth time he had become distracted, by seemingly anything that moved. It could hardly be his fault that even the lightly falling snow was more exciting than Latin grammar, could it?

_Incolo, incolis, incolit, incolimus, incolitis..._ahh, it was the third person _plural_. _Incolunt**._ He smiled grimly, determined not to let the Latin get the better of him again.

"John!" His brother, Henry, entered the small study, holding a ball and looking at the younger man expectantly. "I propose a small rugby contest. I'd like to see what you learned playing for that team at university." As young boys, they had frequently played two-man rugby; in fact it had been Henry who taught John how to tackle an opponent. But they hadn't played in years, not since Henry had left for University some four years before John did. That was when all the trouble started.

John looked up irritably, "Certainly not. It's snowing, and besides, I have a great deal of work to finish before I return to London." He was only home for a scant three days, and with the amount of work he had to do, it hardly seemed worth the trip.

"Oh, go on, Johnny," Henry wheedled. "What's a little snow when we haven't played rugby in years?"

John threw down his pen, growing more annoyed with the interruption by the minute. He squinted at the passage. Surely the the different parts of Gaul weren't _calling_ the Celts to do anything? Then he realized his mistake. _Appelantur, _not _appelant***._ "You've just caused me to mistranslate a passive as an active." He sat back in frustration, throwing Henry a dark look, although he was truthfully more angry at the translation than anything else. Caesar's Gallic Wars were supposed to be one of the easier works to translate; there was none of the elaborate word order one found in poetry such as Ovid or Catullus. Why he couldn't do it was beyond him.

Henry sat down next to him, picking up the paper. "Latin, John? You should have done what I did."

"What, give it up before your second year?"

Henry grinned. "University was much more fun after that."

John shook his head, "But you didn't even graduate."

Henry shrugged, "It's no matter. I didn't need it anyway." John thought about arguing, asking what exactly Henry planned to do with no prospects of a career in sight, but their father had had that conversation many times, to no avail. John loved his brother dearly, but he could no longer pretend that Henry Watson was anything other than careless. Perhaps that was why he himself worked so hard to achieve his goals.

"The question," Henry continued, tossing the ball up in the air and catching it. "is why you need to waste your time translating centuries-old poetry. I thought you were going to medical school, not the Academy in Athens."

John smiled in spite of himself. "You have a point there, at least, I think so. There isn't much need anymore for medical professionals to write out prescriptions in a dead language, but for some reason they insist on our learning it so here I am." He shrugged, turning back to Caesar. He still had ten more pages to translate, and he groaned aloud. Waiting for him was a diagram of the bones if the foot he was supposed to label, and an altogether too-long text on the properties and theory of the smallpox inoculation which he was supposed to read for his next class.

Henry watched him, remarking, "You're making me glad I didn't go into medicine, Johnny. Look at all this work you have to do!"

"Yes, well, when I can save someone's life thanks to my medical training, it will all be worth it," John said. Both their eyes strayed to the photograph of their mother, dead these five years of a pneumonia that should have been cured if only they'd caught it in time.

Henry, never comfortable with such heavy, emotional moments, sat up, " What would you do, if you had the choice? "

"I'd be a doctor," John answered, confused. "That _is _why I'm going to medical school."

"No, no, I mean something else," Henry asked. "Besides being a doctor."

"Well," John answered, his eyes straying to his personal bookshelves, which were full to bursting of adventure novels, the works of Mr. Dickens, a few of that newer genre, the detective novel, as well as a few true classics. "I should very much like to write. Stories, I mean." He ducked his head so Henry wouldn't see him flush in embarrassment. He thought of the little journal that he kept locked in his bedside cabinet, full of the beginnings of stories, or short interludes between characters. Nothing substantial, and certainly nothing publishable. Just something he did in his very limited spare time.

"Well, then, why don't you?" Henry asked. "You could even do that alongside a medical practice."

John shook his head, "I can't even finish one story, and it's getting very hard to balance all my endeavors. Even the small amount of writing I do now is taking valuable time away from my studies." He had been thinking of giving the writing up for a while, but something always stopped him.

Henry, of course, never listened to any logical reason for why one shouldn't do something, and said, "So find the time. I don't see the point in giving up something you enjoy."

"But it's never going to get me anywhere," John said. He gestured toward the still unfinished Latin. "_This _will get me somewhere. I could write for years and never have the security from it that medicine will bring me."

"If you'll have all the security from the medicine, then there's no reason why you shouldn't keep writing on the side," Henry said doggedly. John shook his head, giving up the argument. This was about as serious as Henry ever was, and even now he wasn't listening to sense.

"Life is short, little brother. Do what you love," Henry said as he left. John turned back to his Latin, but he kept thinking about what Henry had said. Maybe he shouldn't give up on his writing. Maybe he would be able to fit it alongside his medical career. If only he could find a subject that would lend itself to more than just his scribblings and become something actually publishable.

Years later, Doctor John Watson received his late brother's pocket watch only a few days after the first publication of _A_ _Study_ _in_ _Scarlet_. Being unable to visit Henry's grave on the Continent, he simply looked sadly at the watch, thought of all the wasted potential of Henry's life, and whispered to it:

_Vale, frater meus, et gratias tibi ago._

_Requiescat in pace.****_

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><p><em>*<em>All Gaul was divided in three parts._  
><em>

_**__incolo:_ I inhabit, _incolis: _you inhabit, _incolit: _he/she/it inhabits, _incolimus: _we inhabit, _incolitis: _you all inhabit, _incolunt: _they inhabit.

***_Appellant_ is "they called," _appellantur_ is "they were called."

The entire line he was translating goes "_Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres, quarum unam incolunt Belgae, aliam Aquitani, tertiam qui ipsorum lingua Celtae, nostra Galli appellantur._"

So, "All Gaul is divided into three parts, of which one is inhabited by the Belgians, another by the Aquitaini, the third, those who in their language are called Celts, in ours, Gauls."

****Farewell, my brother, and thank you (literally, I do thanks to you). Rest in peace.


	5. Chapter 5

Prompt: Lost, from KnightFury. AKA I finally get to include Mrs. Hudson!

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><p>Mrs. Hudson turned around at the knock on the back door, smiling when she recognized Mrs. Turner from next door. "Come in, Julia!" she called.<p>

"I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas, Martha," Mrs. Turner said. "I don't want to keep you if you're busy."

Mrs. Hudson waved a hand. "Oh, don't worry about it. I was only just starting on Christmas dinner. You're welcome to stay if you don't mind me cooking."

Mrs. Turner sat down, "You know I don't mind. I know just as well as you how much work goes into taking care of lodgers."

Both women were in the unhappy position of having to rent out portions of their homes to pay the bills, not having husbands to count on. But the similarity of their situations had led them to become fast friends, and Julia Turner had been immensely helpful in guiding Mrs. Hudson down the path of a landlady when her husband passed away.

Mrs. Hudson began busily setting out the ingredients for a cake, the type Mr. Holmes had declared himself inordinately fond of last year, his first Christmas as her lodger.

"You're not making a Christmas pudding?" Mrs. Turner asked, following Mrs. Hudson's progress.

"Mr. Holmes told me he prefers something sweeter," Mrs. Hudson answered. "Honestly, like a child, he is sometimes. But he's far too thin; he needs something to fatten him up."

Mrs. Turner shook her head, "I don't know how you do it, Martha. Mr. Holmes comes with such a list of demands. I don't think I could keep up with him."

"He's not so bad," Mrs. Hudson said. "And Dr. Watson is very easy-going. I've never heard the man complain yet."

Mrs. Turner scoffed, "Only because his companion does all the complaining for him."

Discussing the various good and bad points about their respective lodgers was a favorite conversation topic between Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner, and the former knew how often she had ended up in her neighbor's kitchen, despairing over yet another broken china plate or escaping the smell of some undoubtedly toxic chemical experiment. Still, after a year she had started to see much more in her eccentric young lodger than many others would have.

"Mr. Holmes likes things how he likes them," Mrs. Hudson said calmly.

"That's quite a change," Mrs. Turner remarked, accepting the cup of tea Mrs. Hudson offered her. "Only a few months back he was the worst tenant in London."

Mrs. Hudson laughed, "Well, he is that, make no mistake." She began rummaging through the cabinets, searching for her best mixing bowl.

Mrs. Turner rolled her eyes, "Honestly, Martha, I don't mind the smells, but can't you tell him not to play the violin at three in the morning? I can't sleep and I'm afraid Mr. Edwards will leave."

"I'm sorry, Julia. I have tried but when he can't sleep that's what he does," Mrs. Hudson said. At first it had bothered her as well, but lately she had begun to find it pleasant to fall asleep to the strains of a violin. "Blast it, where is it?"

"What are you looking for?"

"My best mixing bowl. I seem to have lost it," Mrs. Hudson said, frustrated.

"Did you lend it to someone and forgot?" Mrs. Turner asked. "I thought I'd lost my egg whisk but it turned out my sister had never returned it."

"No," Mrs. Hudson said. "I haven't lent anything out since Mrs. Garrett in 217 found snake fangs in the preserving jar I sent her."

Mrs. Turner's eyebrows flew up, saying, "And you wonder why people are amazed you lasted this long with him. Do you have another mixing bowl?"

"I do, but it isn't large enough," Mrs. Hudson said. "What I do have is a consulting detective with too much time on his hands." She hurried to the bottom of the steps and yelled up to the sitting room, "Mr. Holmes!"

He appeared at the landing, still in his dressing gown, looking bored. "What is it, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Did you use my large mixing bowl for something?"

He thought for a moment, "No, I don't believe so."

"No experiment, no test of some criminal relic?" Sherlock Holmes shook his head, and Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Then I believe I have a case for you."

It was a mark of how bored he must have been that he came bounding down the stairs instantly. "Did someone steal it? I must admit I would be very impressed by any burglar who managed to break into this house and take something without being detected."

"No, I'm fairly certain I just misplaced it," Mrs. Hudson said. If Mr. Holmes was disappointed, he allowed only a shadow of it to cross his face. He started looking in all the cabinets himself, moving things aside. "I already checked there myself," Mrs. Hudson said.

"It is invaluable to me to see the scene of the crime for myself," he answered imperiously. Mrs. Turner grimaced at Mrs. Hudson behind his back, and Mrs. Hudson had to stifle her grin.

"Think back, Mrs. Hudson, when was the last time you used this particular bowl?" He sat down at the kitchen table, focusing his attention on her.

"Well, I don't normally use it at all; it's far too large for most of what I cook," she answered "But I did use it two weeks ago when I made that fish stew."

"Ah, yes, I remember," Holmes said, looking around the kitchen. "I see from the ingredients you were about to make a cake, presumably the one I was so complimentary about last year?"

"I didn't know you knew anything about cooking, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson answered.

Holmes smiled, "My dear Mrs. Hudson, it is only chemistry with edible components. The underlying principles are exactly the same. Now, what did you do with the remaining stew, if that was the last time you saw it?"

Mrs. Hudson thought for a moment, and Holmes, growing impatient, said, "It is very important you remember every detail you can."

"That's just it, I don't remember," she said. "I put it on the table after I cleaned out the last of the stew and I never remember seeing it after that. Are you_ sure _you didn't take it?"

"I am positive. I have no use for such a thing," Holmes answered. He got up and began examining the doorknob. "Even after a few weeks, there should be signs of a break in," he muttered to himself. "But I cannot find any trace."

They heard the front door open and close, signaling Doctor Watson's return. "Holmes?" He called.

"In here, Watson," Holmes shouted back, not taking his eyes off the back door. "Mrs. Hudson has presented me with an interesting problem."

"Good afternoon," Doctor Watson said to Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Hudson. "What problem? Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes, Doctor, I'm fine," Mrs. Hudson said. "I just seem to have lost my best mixing bowl, that's all. I thought Mr. Holmes could help me find it."

Dr. Watson froze, an expression on his face that suggested being caught in the act. "Your, er, large mixing bowl? The one you served the fish stew in?"

"Yes, exactly," Mrs. Hudson answered as Holmes asked, "Watson, do you know something about it?"

Dr. Watson cleared his throat embarrassedly, "Well, I...you see, at my club, everyone has a habit of bringing in something around the holidays, a cake, or perhaps some biscuits. I had no idea what I could bring, so I simply bought some good chocolates. It didn't strike me until later that I would need something to put them in."

"So you borrowed Mrs. Hudson's mixing bowl?" Holmes finished.

"It was just out on the table! I completely forgot to ask," he turned to Mrs. Hudson. "I'm dreadfully sorry. The bowl is at my club, I will go get it immediately."

"That is quite all right, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson answered. "At least I know what happened to it. Why didn't you simply ask me? I would have made you something."

Dr. Watson turned bright red and mumbled something into his shoes about not wanting to bother her. "Nonsense, Doctor. _You_ do not bother me at all," she said, and grinned quickly at Holmes to show she was teasing.

"Nonetheless," she continued, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, for attempting to solve the mystery."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Hudson," he answered. "If you do ever have an actual case, be sure to let me know. Now, Watson, I suggest we go and retrieve Mrs. Hudson's bowl so she can finish making that excellent cake for us for Christmas. I must say, Watson, you showed quite a talent for criminal activities just now." They left the kitchen, discussing the possibility of stopping off at either the tobacconists or the bookstore on the way back, or possibly both, and Mrs. Hudson sat down at the table, beginning to shake with laughter.

"Well," Mrs. Turner said, handing her empty teacup back. "That was quite a show. Are they always like that?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded, still laughing, and her neighbor looked at her as if she had suddenly grown an extra head. "I did think Dr. Watson would balance out Mr. Holmes's eccentricities. I was entirely wrong, wasn't I?"

"Completely," Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully. "Oh, they are a handful sometimes but I don't think I'd want them any other way."

"Hmph," Mrs. Turner sniffed. "I must say, I'm glad they came to you first, otherwise I would have them in my house and then where would I be? My Mr. Edwards is a much better lodger. Well, Merry Christmas, dear."

"And to you," Mrs. Hudson answered as her friend left. She had to admit she was very glad Mr. Holmes had come to her first as well. She didn't think she would do well with the bland Mr. Edwards and his precise instructions on how to prepare chicken and press his suits in exactly the right manner. She far preferred an interesting life to a routine one, and she doubted that any household containing Sherlock Holmes could ever be considered routine.


	6. Chapter 6

Prompt: Holmes consults another detective, from Ennui Enigma

A/N The prompt originally suggested Poirot as the other detective Holmes consults, but I'm not much of a fan of Agatha Christie; I've only read a couple of her novels, and don't really know Poirot as a character well enough to write him. So, apologies to Ennui Enigma and anyone else who really wanted a Holmes-Poirot crossover.

I am, however, a huge Edgar Allan Poe fan, so here is my take on Holmes meeting his predecessor, C. Auguste Dupin.

* * *

><p>It was the early winter of 1888 when Sherlock Holmes and I made our way to Paris, in connection with a problem surrounding one of the many exalted, yet financially destitute noble houses of France. In addition, it was to be our final case together before my marriage, and as such rose to greater prominence in my mind than it ordinarily would have.<p>

I cannot speak for my companion, who was even more reticent than usual during both the crossing and our first day in the city. He seemed unaffected by the beauty of the City of Lights, and I even found myself going to the Louvre alone to view the artistic treasures there. I was growing quite annoyed and was beginning to regret coming when there was so much preparation that needed to be done before the wedding when we arrived at the scene in question with the case to find the Prefect of the Parisian Police apparently waiting for us.

"Ahh, Monsieur Holmes, I have heard of you, of course, in connection with several other of my countrymen you have helped. I wish they had told me you were coming, you see, I think perhaps it would be helpful for you to visit with our own consultant." His English was very good, fortunately, for while Holmes was fluent, my French was mediocre at best.

Holmes bristled at the suggestion that he ask another private consultant for assistance. "I assure you, I am quite capable of bringing this case to a satisfactory conclusion myself."

Monsieur G- smiled, "of course, but perhaps it would be helpful to you to see someone with local knowledge and experience of this sort of thing. He lives at 33 Rue Fauborg St. Germain." Holmes's face flushed but he gave no other sign that he was angry. Monsieur G- continued unaware. "Do not go until nightfall. Monsieur Dupin keeps most irregular hours."

"Dupin? He is_ real?" _I asked incredulously as we made our way to the address later that evening. "I thought him to be an invention of Mr. Poe."

"It would appear so," Holmes answered stiffly. "Although I daresay many people might say the same about me now that you have published your own detective tale."

I allowed the barb to pass, knowing Holmes's feelings on the matter very well. Besides, we were now approaching the the house we had been directed to, a crumbling mansion covered in ivy. It had a romantic, if bleak, air about it, and fit exactly the description I had read in "The Murders of the Rue Morgue." My friend appeared unaffected by the unusual appearance of the place and he knocked on the door.

"Good evening," Holmes said to the man, a thin figure with pale skin and a pallor that suggested he had not seen the sun in many days. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson. We are looking for Monsieur Dupin."

The man nodded, saying, "Follow me," (in an American accent; this, then, was the narrator of Mr. Poe's stories) and led us into the darkened atmosphere of the mansion. I glanced around; the carpets and tapestries on the walls must have been handsome once, but were now moth eaten and faded and there was little furniture besides that which was strictly necessary. As we followed our unnamed guide, I noticed more than one room that appeared to shut up completely. The effect was deliberately unwelcoming; the only items that were recently used were the books.

We entered a small back room that was even more full of books than the rest of the house. A second man, tall and thin with an air that suggested he seldom moved from this location. His friend introduced us, and Dupin stood up, shaking both our hands. "We have heard of you, Monsieur Holmes. We thought it most entertaining that someone should do something so similar as to publish a story about a criminal case."

"We were no less surprised," I said. "I had no inkling you were anything other than a fictional character!"

"Mr. Poe was my literary agent in America," Dupin's nameless friend said. "As Dr. Doyle is yours, I believe."

"You would not be here for any reason other than a case, I think," Dupin said. "Did Monsieur G- send you?"

"He did," my friend affirmed. "I must confess, the case is relatively simple, as soon as Watson and I have an opportunity to look around the scene, it will all be made clear."

Dupin shrugged, "I do not usually need to view the scene myself. Aside from the case of the Rue Morgue murders, I am usually able to determine the solution without leaving this chair."

Holmes flushed, "I do not _always _have to visit a scene, but I find it very useful to view things for myself. For instance, I can see that you have not left this house for the past three days, and are in the process of writing a treatise on the ancient Egyptian origins of modern occultism."

"He is almost like you!" Dupin's friend said in astonishment.

Holmes smiled. "It is no trouble at all to determine that your clothes have only the barest dust on them, but that they are rumpled enough to have been worn for at least three days. In addition, all the books in this room are neatly organized, save for that shelf, where they are haphazardly put back. The subject of those books all consist of either Egypt or occult matters, and that pen is still wet, meaning you were only just using it. The stack of papers means you have already written a great deal on the subject."

"I did tell you," Dupin said when my friend finished, sounding amused. "Are you also able to read your friend's thoughts without his saying anything?"

"Yes, he does it all the time!" I said. Dupin smiled, turning back to Holmes.

"So, tell me of the case."

Holmes lay out the facts quickly, detailing the disappearance of one of the last surviving members of a noble house fallen upon hard times. The man in question had been of quiet habits, only leaving his home to walk along the Seine in the mornings, until one day he simply did not return. "He knew no one who could have a grudge against him, and the destitution of his house meant no one could use him for blackmail. A newspaper salesman who witnessed his walk each day saw him enter a house near the center of the city, marking it because of how unusual it was. He was not seen again."

"Did you determine whose house it was?" Dupin asked.

"It belongs to a perfectly ordinary gentleman by name of Monsieur Henri Bouget," Holmes answered. "I was able to find out nothing about him."

"Ah, see, that is where some local knowledge proves useful," Dupin said. "I happen to know, through some studies of my own, that Monsieur Bouget is known for printing seditious pamphlets, railing against the government's current anti-German policies. He runs a press out of his own house."

Holmes appeared disgruntled but soon recovered himself, "That makes things only a little clearer." As they went on discussing the case, I occupied myself studying the bookshelves. Dupin's friend soon came to join me.

"Did you not want to hear about the case?" I asked.

"He will tell me about it later," the man said carelessly. "He is given to lecture upon whatever subject he finds interesting."

"As is Holmes," I said. "Although I think their choices of subjects must differ." All their books were of the darkest, most obscure subjects, that even Holmes in his most unusual moods would not touch.

"Dupin and I share a certain morbidity in our interests and outlook."

I refrained from saying that I found the atmosphere of their home oppressive, thinking longingly of our warm fire, even with the day's letters stuck to the mantel with a knife. Holmes seemed positively friendly in comparison to Dupin and his friend. Looking over at Holmes, I could see that they had apparently overcome their differences, and were now deep in conversation about the case.

Some time later, Holmes stood up, shaking Dupin by the hand, "Thank you for your assistance. I assure you, the matter is quite clear to me now. Although our methods differ, it was most refreshing to discuss crime with someone who understands it as I do."

"You have solved it?" I asked.

"Indeed," Dupin said. "It is obvious that this nobleman, having fallen upon hard times, came to believe that the entire hereditary system of wealth was immoral, and fell in with a rebellious set. However, his livelihood was dependent upon his creditors taking pity on his rank and reduced circumstances, and so he arrange for the radicals to remove him from Paris and set him up somewhere where he could begin again as one of their number." He sat back, satisfied.

"So it was not a murder at all?" I asked.

"It would appear not," Holmes said. "I should still very much like to visit this house and determine it for myself, but Dupin assures me he is quite correct."

"I have never yet been wrong," the Frenchman said. Even Holmes had never claimed such a thing, and I was slightly taken aback. We took our leave soon after that, both of us breathing a sigh of relief to be back on the lively streets of Paris instead of that gloomy house.

"Perhaps the necessity of solving cases for a living has given me a better knowledge of my own abilities," Holmes said later, when I mentioned this. "He has no need to take on cases, having his friend paying for their lodgings."

I began to laugh quietly to myself, and Holmes turned to me quizzically. "I must confess, Watson, this time I have no idea what you are thinking."

"Only that I should not have liked to be that fellow Dupin's biographer. He seems a trial to live with, and it would be a great drain on my finances."

"It was most gloomy, was it not?" Holmes asked. "I far prefer you as a biographer to that odd American Dupin employs. He did not even introduce himself!"

I agreed that they were, indeed, an odd pair, but could not stop myself wondering if Holmes and I would remain friends for as long as they had. I did hope so, regardless of my marriage, and said, "You know, Holmes, I hope you will continue to allow me to accompany you on cases when I am able. I am only getting married, not moving across the world."

Holmes's face broke into a smile, "I was hoping you would be agreeable to that. I must have more stories if I am to replace Dupin as the public persona of a detective."

"You mean I may write more?" I asked enthusiastically. I had not thought he would allow me to, after he had been so disparaging of _A Study in Scarlet._

"Of course," Holmes said. "Whatever your shortcomings as a writer, they far outweigh the simplicity of the Dupin stories. Why, he does not even allow his companion a name, let alone a character, while without him, Dupin would not be remembered at all."

It was a roundabout compliment, but a compliment all the same, and I accepted it with a smile as we returned to our rooms. The case was solved the next day, when Holmes went to the Prefect with Dupin's conjecture and it was proved to be true with some interrogation of the known members of the radical group. And I determined to ask Holmes on the journey home the question I had been dreading his answer to: whether he would consent to be my best man.


	7. Chapter 7

Prompt: Somber observations on a cold day in the country, from TemporarilyAbaft

A/N I'm not sure how this turned out - it's usually a struggle for me not to do a ton of introspection in my fics, but I don't usually write Holmes POV and I never write fic set during the Hiatus. I really hope I got him in character. It's kind of sad, just fyi. Also really philosophical.

* * *

><p>March 15, 1893<p>

I write this sitting on a rock some distance from the Head Lama's palace. It is dreadfully cold, as I was warned it would be in Tibet, but I find the cold focuses my thoughts.

I have been in conversation with the Head Lama for several days now. No doubt my brother will be fascinated to hear of my report, as few Europeans have ever journeyed here. This is not that report. I am not a storyteller as Watson is, but I know my own thoughts and have had reason these last few days to sort through them.

The Head Lama was most kind in sharing his wisdom with me, and while I am not the type to adhere strictly to any belief system, I dutifully listened, as any increase in our knowledge of this land will assist our trade endeavors here. Or so Mycroft tells me. I must confess that the whole business holds very little interest to me, but Mycroft has sworn more than once to cut off my financial support if I did not make myself useful. So I will write what the Lama told me here so I do not forget it.

"The Buddha said that life is suffering. Suffering because of our desires, to possess things, or for them to fit into what we want them to be," the Lama told me as we strolled through the palace. His interpreter, a young acolyte who had traveled to London before taking his vows, trailed behind us. I frowned; my wants were few and yet I hardly ever deemed myself content.

"You disagree?" he asked, seeing my expression.

"I want little," I explained, thinking of my threadbare dressing gowns and small living quarters in London.

"Do you truly?" I thought harder, remembering months going by without any case of interest. Perhaps what I truly wanted was not material possessions.

"I want always to be occupied," I finally said. "Problems of the mind, or some subject I deem useful to learn."

"Expanding knowledge is always wise," the Lama said, nodding. "But your desire for it has caused it to lose its use. It now causes your suffering."

I could not argue with that. I thought of the tiny needle marks along my arm, testament to the lengths I would go to avoid that listless existence between cases.

"You can end your own suffering by eliminating your own wants," he continued. "I can teach you to meditate, if you wish, to find the true self that exists beneath those wants. The part of you that is connected to everything else that lives." I politely declined; I have witnessed meditation rituals in my time here and I know I cannot turn my mind off in that way. Opening it completely to any thought that chances across it is the last thing I want.

We had reached the outside of the palace, and the Lama kindly left me to think on what he said. Most of it consisted of rightness; right thinking, right effort, right action, right livelihood. I find myself puzzled by this. According to these tenets, my life has been a paragon of rightness. My career has led me to help many who would have been lost otherwise. I have, through my cases, prevented crimes which would have caused irreparable harm to life and property. But I know I did not do so out of any altruistic desire. It was the puzzle, the intellectual problem that appealed to me. Are the beneficial results any less so because my intentions were not entirely selfless? Surely results are what matter? Bah, I have no patience for this type of philosophizing. I was content to end my career on the high note of Moriarty's death, and so it will remain.

Nevertheless, the matter of suffering continues to intrigue me. When I began this sojourn after my apparent death at the Reichenbach Falls, I did not expect it to last this long. Indeed, I was so ill prepared that I fully expected Moriarty's henchmen to find me in a matter of months, or else to make some mistake, allowing me to return home. That has not been the case, as this account testifies. Two and a half years into my journey with no end in sight, I am beginning to view those quiet days at Baker Street with a longing I never thought I would. Is this suffering I can simply end? Surely it is entirely natural to want to return home.

But I am not unhappy now because I _want _to be here. I don't want to be here; I never wanted the Moriarty case to go so far. It was only because of my own underestimation of the man that I was forced to take this drastic a step. If what I had wanted had taken place, I would very happily be in my Baker Street rooms right now. Perhaps Watson would be visiting. What a pleasant thought, and I have had few enough of those recently.

Of course. I have been thinking about this all wrong. Yes, I wanted the Moriarty case completed to my satisfaction, but only because of something else I wanted much more. Watson's safety. I have detailed many times in this record how it is only his sincere belief that I am dead keeping Moriarty's most sinister henchman, Col. Moran, from seeking him out. If he should have any idea that I am alive...I do not even want to think what they would do to him to get that information. Or to Mrs. Watson. Surely _that _is a desire worth being utterly miserable for a while to achieve.

But I know that my motives even in this are not entirely pure. I do not claim that Watson is the only person I have ever cared for. Even I am not an island. I hold my brother in high regard (although should he ever read this, I will deny it profusely, as is the right of a younger sibling). Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Watson, even Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson have become friendly stars in my personal sky. Watson is simply the only person without whom my life would be utterly empty.

There. I have admitted it to this journal, if nowhere else. I desire Watson's safety because he is essential to me, for reasons I have never understood. I was prepared to die to ensure it, although I am pleased it did not come to that. Should he not wish to speak to me again in the face of this deception, my ultimate goal will still be accomplished, however personally painful it is to me. But the thought of living on without him, no, that is a world I do not care to contemplate. My truest desire, then, is for us both to be safe in London. How can that be causing me suffering? Is that so terrible a thing to want? And yet, I know it is. Only ten years ago I would have relished the chance to take on an enemy like Professor Moriarty, to travel the world escaping a vast criminal web. Now, I find that the excitement pales in comparison to a warm fire or the prospect of a pleasant outing with my dearest friend. I am growing old, I expect. Perhaps I should remain retired, even after I return to London.

Is the achievement of a desire, then, an evil? If the desire itself does no harm to anyone else? Should I ever see Watson again, and if he is forgiving enough to allow me back into his life, what harm is that fulfillment doing anyone? As far as I can see, it has done me only good. He has provided me valuable assistance, and through me, many others as well. His presence is, I believe, the only thing that has kept me from losing myself on more than one occasion. I truly cannot feel that he is anything but a complete good to all who know him, and if desiring that presence in my life is wrong, well then, let me be wrong. I have been right often enough that this one time - this _most important _time - should mean little.

I dearly hope no one ever reads this account; I have become far too introspective and sentimental. No doubt it is concentrating on the metaphysical (thank you, brother mine) that has brought this out in me. It is dangerous, to let my guard down even for a moment. I will never reach my goal - returning to London, and to Watson - if Moran finds me contemplating the nature of good and evil before I am ready. This desire will keep me alive, if I can only remain focused on it.

I very much doubt I shall want for anything else, ever, once that end has been achieved.


	8. Chapter 8

Prompt - A mysterious pile of pine boughs appears outside the front door of the flat, from Madam'zelleGiry

* * *

><p>It was dreadfully cold December day in 1898 when I returned to our Baker Street rooms from running some late morning errands. My thoughts were only on the possibility of a hot cup of tea and the desire never to leave the sitting room until spring had returned. My leg, always painful in colder weather, made the steps difficult going and I was not paying much attention to where I was going when I suddenly trod on what felt like a small pile of sticks outside our door.<p>

I stepped back, seeing that instead of dry sticks, they were in fact tiny pine boughs that appeared to have been cut from larger branches. What could they possibly be doing there? Mrs. Hudson kept our hallway in a state of perfect cleanliness, and would be extremely unhappy with the presence of these branches. As I watched, however, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A small mouse was approaching the pine boughs, and I was about to call down the stairs for the maid to make sure the traps were set tonight when I looked back at the mouse in confusion.

This mouse was wearing a tiny version of a gentleman's suit, and I closed my eyes and shook my head, thinking that perhaps I was more tired than I had thought. Reopening my eyes, I saw that the mouse was _still _wearing clothes, and so obviously was not a figment of my imagination. As I watched in astonishment, the mouse looked at the pine boughs and appeared to sigh in frustration, saying in a high-pitched voice, "Dawson, did you leave these here? I told you one of them would likely step on them."

A second mouse, shorter and stouter than his companion but also wearing a suit and hat, crawled out from under our sitting room door, dragging more pine boughs behind him. "I'm sorry, Basil," he said contritely. "It seemed a convenient place to leave them."

"Until someone steps on them," the first mouse – Basil? – said. Turning to look up at me, he pointed an accusing finger in my direction. "You, sir, have stepped on our Christmas decorations!"

"Oh, I'm…sorry?" I said questioningly, unsure how a conversation with an accusatory mouse should go. "I didn't realize they were important."

The second mouse, Dawson, nudged his companion, saying to me, "I'm sorry, sir, we didn't know where else we might get a Christmas tree. I hope we haven't left your own tree too bare."

My eyes shot open wider than I had previously believed possible. "Do you mean to tell me these pine boughs are cut from our Christmas tree?"

"Certainly," Basil answered. "I assure you, it is barely noticeable."

"Oh, well, that is quite all right," I said, beginning to warm up to the little mouse. "You had best make your way back to …er, wherever it is you come from before Mrs. Hudson finds you here. She isn't terribly fond of mice."

Basil and Dawson both laughed, "We know. We've become experts at dodging her brooms, Dr. Watson."

My brows furrowed in confusion, "Do you mean to say you live _here?_"

"Watson, is that you? I have a question I would like your opinion on," Holmes's voice came from inside the sitting room and the door swung open.

"Holmes, wait, don't step anywhere!" I cried. Holmes stopped, one foot hovering over the threshold, eyeing me curiously.

"I did not want you to step on my friends here, "I said apologetically.

"Watson, whatever are you talking about?" Holmes asked. I gestured toward the two mice next to the pine boughs, and he looked at me as if seriously worried about my state of mind. "Watson, I know you are fond of small creatures, but if we have a mouse problem, we simply have to tell Mrs. Hudson."

"No, Holmes, look again," I said. Holmes glanced down again, and he stepped back.

"Why are those mice wearing clothes?" he asked me, as if it was my doing.

"Do you not trust your senses, Mr. Holmes?" Basil asked smugly. "I didn't think you were the type to deny what you can see clearly."

Holmes moved over to stand next to me," Watson, that mouse is talking."

I sighed, "Yes, Holmes I know."

"Mice do not _talk_, Watson."

"Obviously we _do,"_ Basil answered. Next to him, Dawson was laughing into his hand.

"But what are you doing here?" Holmes asked urgently, with the air of a man who has had his entire worldview turned upside down in an instant.

"Why, we live here, of course!" Dawson said, drawing himself up.

"It is not only humans who have need of a private consulting detective," Basil added. He held out his hand to me, "Basil of Baker Street, my good sirs, and this is my friend, Doctor Dawson, late of Her Majesty's Army."

"Oh, you are a doctor, too?" I asked Dawson, who smiled and nodded.

"Watson, _stop _talking to the mice!" Holmes said. "I do not know what chemical has caused this…hallucination, but it cannot possibly be real!"

I shrugged, "It seems real enough to me. They seem like very pleasant little fellows." I turned back to Dawson. "Do you assist Basil on his cases as well?"

"I certainly do," he answered proudly. "Basil here has been credited with saving all of mouse-dom on more than one occasion."

"Now, then, Dawson, that will do," Basil said, although he had the same proud look Holmes always wore when discussing his cases. "I daresay my career and Mr. Holmes's have gone along much the same path."

"Now, when you say 'all of mouse-dom,' do you mean you have a queen, and an army, and everything we ourselves have?" I asked curiously. The idea was quite fascinating to me; it seemed like something an author of the fantastical might dream up.

"We certainly do!" Dawson said, and appeared ready to explain all of it to me when Basil very pointedly looked at his watch. "But I regret to say we must be going."

"The client promised to be here promptly at four in the afternoon to discuss his case and it is nearly four now," Basil said impatiently.

"Yes, of course, Basil," Dawson said.

Holmes, who had been leaning against the wall trying very hard to pretend none of this was happening, suddenly looked up, "Do you mean to say you are on a case at the moment?"

Basil nodded, "I expect to solve it before the end of the day tomorrow; it is a simple affair. Probably not worth writing up, Dawson." There was something in the way he said it that suggested to me he disliked the "sensationalism" of his friend's stories as much as Holmes disliked mine. He looked back up at Holmes, softening slightly and saying, "I trust we have your permission to remain? It would be an inconvenience to change my address now."

"Yes, of course," Holmes said, surprising all three of us. "Far be it from me to interfere in another detective's career."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Basil said. Then, with a wicked grin, "Should you ever find yourself in need of advice, you know where to find me."

Holmes bristled, "You can be sure the same goes for you, Basil of Baker Street." The two mice gathered up their pine boughs and disappeared along the wall, Dawson waving gaily back at me.

"What made you change your mind?" I asked as we closed the door to the sitting room and took our places in the armchairs by the fire.

"Well, my dear Watson, the mouse was correct in one thing," Holmes said. "I am not the type to deny what I can see clearly in front of me. I eliminated the impossible; therefore, what remains must be the truth. However odd it seems, the truth appears to be that there is a mouse consulting detective living right under our noses, serving a society of mice."

"'There are more things in heaven and earth then are dreamed of in your philosophy,'" I murmured.

"Precisely," Holmes answered. "Besides, they truly were not such bad fellows, for mice. They rather reminded me of you and me."

I smiled, "They did indeed."

"Now hand me the agony column, Watson. If I am to have competition, even if it is from a mouse, I must make sure I maintain my knowledge and skills."

* * *

><p>AN I simply couldn't resist ;)


	9. Chapter 9

Prompt: Running around outside in shirtsleeves during a winter snow. What could have possibly possessed _ to do so?, by TemporarilyAbaft.

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><p>It was the beginning of a bitter winter in 1886 when my friend Sherlock Holmes and I were making our way to Scotland Yard, to deliver some evidence Holmes had discovered in the course of a chemical experiment. He maintained that the breakthrough could mean the difference between life and death for a wrongfully convicted man, and as such, it was essential that we hand the results directly to Inspector Lestrade as soon as possible. Nothing of lesser import could have stirred me from our fireside on such a dreary day, especially as it began lightly snowing once we were halfway there.<p>

"If I could trust Lestrade to come to the same conclusion, I would not be out in this weather either," Holmes remarked. "But he still has only the mental acumen to see what it directly in front of him. Left to Scotland Yard, the prisons would be full of innocent men and the streets teeming with criminals."

"I almost think you would prefer it that way," I said dryly.

Holmes smiled, "It would certainly liven up our lives, although perhaps the common citizen would not be so pleased. Ah, but here were are." He paid the hansom driver, and I shivered as we stepped out of the cab. The snow was not heavy, but it was steady, and showed no signs of letting up. Holmes led the way through the gates and then stopped so suddenly I very nearly walked into him.

"Holmes, what are you-" then I stopped, for I saw exactly what had so astonished him. The sight of Detective Inspector Lestrade, running in circles around the courtyard in nothing but his shirtsleeves and his trousers, in spite of the winter weather. He appeared to be exerting himself so much he did not even notice the cold, for when he saw us, he stopped and came over, breathing heavily.

"Afternoon, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," said the little official detective. "What brings you here?"

Holmes held up his chemical results by way of answer, "The results from the chemical experiment connected with the Botanical Gardens case. It is as I said, young Mr. Harper is innocent."

Lestrade shook his head, "I don't know how you do it, Mr. Holmes, but somehow you always do. Bring it inside, I shall join you shortly."

"What exactly are you doing, Inspector?" I asked curiously.

"Training for a race, I wager?" Holmes asked. "I can think of no reason why a man who takes no other exercise would be so exerting himself in weather such as this."

Lestrade laughed, standing up as he regained his breath, "Right you are, Mr. Holmes! Gregson and I were on a case the other night, a small matter of some pickpockets around Piccadilly Circus, and we gave chase. And I would have caught them, too, if only he could have kept up with me!"

"And he maintains that he could have caught them if only you had kept up with him," Holmes finished flatly. I hid my smile in my gloved hand; Lestrade and Gregson had a bitter professional rivalry. When I first knew them, they were barely able to keep from arguing even while on a case. Now, they were usually somewhat better at maintaining peace, but arguments such as this still broke out occasionally.

"Indeed!" Lestrade said, coloring in anger. "I was twenty feet ahead of him the entire time, but in trying to catch both of them, I couldn't keep hold of either of them."

"So you have set yourselves a race to determine who is the faster?" I asked.

"Well, now the whole Yard's taking sides," Lestrade said. "It was the only way to settle the matter."

"It is good to see Scotland Yard taking the business of catching criminals seriously," Holmes said in a perfect deadpan that flew over Lestrade's head, but caused me to collapse in ungentlemanlike giggles. "I shall just go give these results in and then we will be on our way."

Once inside, Holmes and I found ourselves in front of Gregson's desk, and he insisted on telling us his version of the story. "I was all set to plan out our chase when Lestrade was off like a shot after the thieves. Oh, I caught up but by the time I passed him, he was so winded I was after them by myself, and then what was I supposed to do? It's all about pacing, gentlemen."

Lestrade himself came in then, glaring at Gregson. Holmes sighed very audibly, giving the results of his his test to a younger officer on desk duty. "See that this reaches Lestrade when he is finished with this childishness," he instructed the young man.

"It's not childish!" Lestrade exclaimed at the same time as the young man stammered, "Yes, Mr. Holmes."

"When is the race?" I asked in an undertone to Gregson, thinking of the snow outside.

"In a week's time," he answered. "We thought it would sporting to allow ourselves some time to prepare. I, of course, could have raced today, but it is only fair to give my opponent his best chance." Lestrade glared at him, and Gregson smiled back innocently.

"Actually," Gregson continued, looking between me and Holmes. "We have need of a judge. Everyone at the Yard has taken sides. I believe there is even a betting pool. We have need of an impartial fellow to determine the winner, and I can't think of a better one, can you, Lestrade?"

"No, I must say that I can't," Lestrade answered.

"Lestrade, I am not in the business of refereeing sporting events," Holmes said irritably, and Lestrade sent him a withering look.

"I didn't mean _you_, Mr. Holmes. I meant Dr. Watson,here."

I spluttered, "Me?" I caught sight of the utter astonishment on my friend's face and then said, "Well, of course, if you need a judge I should be happy to do it."

"Good," said Gregson. "Be back here in a week's time, at one in the afternoon. We will tell you all the particulars then."

"Very good," I said, shaking them both by the hand. "I wish you both luck."

Holmes appeared to be resisting the urge to roll his eyes, but as we left I distinctly saw him whisper to Bradstreet to put him down for five pounds on Lestrade to win.

"And you wonder why they didn't think you were impartial," I said as we entered yet another hansom for our journey back to Baker Street.

Holmes shrugged, "Lestrade's tenacity will carry him to victory, just you watch, Watson. Plus, if my deductions are correct, he has been training a great deal and Gregson has not been training at all. It is a simple conclusion."

I suppose I will have to wait until next week to determine if he is correct. I only hope the weather improves, for if it doesn't it is likely to be a skating contest instead of a footrace.


	10. Chapter 10

Prompt: A party takes place at 221b, from mrspencil

A/N: I had originally written a whole different answer to this prompt when this idea hit me and I couldn't get it out of my head. What follows is pure, unadulterated crack.

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><p>My friend Sherlock Holmes and I had settled ourselves by the fireside, one day in 1899 when the fog was so thick we could barely see one inch out of our door. We were prepared to while away the evening, he with reorganizing his criminal records, I with a letter to an old Army friend, when suddenly Mrs. Hudson called up the steps. "Gentlemen to see you, Mr. Holmes!"<p>

Holmes and I looked up, startled. "They must be desperate indeed to seek you in such weather," I remarked.

"In that case, it should prove to be an interesting case," Holmes answered. "Let them in, Watson." I opened the door to see two gentlemen standing there, and I motioned them inside. Their clothes were rather odd, coats slightly longer and with more buttons than what a gentleman would wear, and their hats were not tall, with a strange brim that appeared pointed toward the front.

"Thank you," the taller of the two said, "You see, Watson, this is what Baker Street looked like about fifty or so years ago."

"Hmph, is it really?" the shorter of the two answered. "It isn't very large, is it?"

His companion laughed, "Quarters were smaller in those days, old chap. Is there any brandy around, gentlemen?" I stared at them in shock.

"Did you call him…Watson?" I asked, looking at this other Watson. He was at least twenty years older than I.

"Certainly, and don't you know who this is? Sherlock Holmes, the great detective?" the other Watson asked.

"That is not possible, since I am Sherlock Holmes, the detective," my friend said, rising from his seat.

"Nevertheless, it is true," said the other Holmes. "You see the resemblance, don't you, Watson?"

"Yes," both of us said at once. It was true, this other man did look uncannily like Holmes.

Holmes appeared speechless for what was undoubtedly the first time in his life when Mrs. Hudson shouted up the stairs that there were two more gentlemen to see us. "Who can it possibly be now?" I asked, throwing the door open.

I saw two more gentlemen standing there, one of whom again looked like Holmes. He opened his mouth and began speaking in a stream of a language I did not recognize.

"Er, excuse me?" I said weakly, when he had finished.

The fellow sighed, pointing to himself, "Sher-lock Holmes." Then, gesturing toward his silent friend, a tall fellow with blond hair and mustache, "Doc-tor Watson."

"Well, that's preposterous, I'm not blond!" I said, highly affronted just as Holmes asked, "Why are they speaking Russian?"

Catching sight of the previous Holmes and Watsons, the Russian pair waved in greeting and the older Watson began pouring them drinks.

Just then, there was a third knock at the door, and I opened it, giving Holmes a weary look. Standing there was yet again, a pair of gentlemen who bore a remarkable resemblance to Holmes and myself.

"I am Sherlock Holmes," said the taller of the two, sweeping into a theatrical bow. "And this is my trusted friend and companion, Doctor Watson." He had a distinctly musical cadence to his voice that the others lacked.

"Good evening," said this version of me. I looked him over, pleased that he at least _looked _something like me.

"I see the others have already arrived," this Holmes said, looking sad for a reason I could not discern. My Holmes and I stood together by the door, watching them. They were all making a dreadful mess. The Russian Watson and the first, older Watson had chosen the middle of the floor as the best place to have a boxing contest (the Russian fellow was winning), and their two Holmes's were watching eagerly. The most newly arrived Holmes and Watson poured themselves drinks and made free with our armchairs, watching the chaos looking almost bored.

There was a knock at the door, and I was greeted this time by someone who looked very like me and someone who did not look at all like Holmes. "Where are your poisons?" he said.

His companion sighed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, "That's Sherlock Holmes, I'm Doctor Watson. I told you, there would be no poisons after the last time you nearly killed my dog."

Holmes himself stepped back in shock at this newest version of him. "That is not anything like me, is it, Watson?" he asked.

"Not at all," I said firmly, watching the new arrival jump in front of the Holmes in our armchair and challenge him to a fencing match by poking him with the fireplace poker. He sighed lazily but rose admirably to the challenge while both their Watsons watched. "I must say, that one has very good form though," I added, watching the third of the other Holmes's. I had already decided that he and his Watson were the most like us.

"Don't tell me you are taking sides, Watson!" Holmes cried.

I chuckled, "Relax, dear fellow. I have no doubt you could beat them all at being Sherlock Holmes."

A derisive laugh met my ears from the door, which I had left open. "I _highly _doubt that." This new figure, dressed even more unusually in a long black coat and a shockingly bare head that was positively covered in glossy black curls strode in, tossing his coat on an unused chair. His companion, a blond fellow who was the only one among my impersonators not to sport a mustache, hurried in after him, tossing me an apologetic look.

"Let me guess, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson?" I asked.

This Doctor Watson nodded, and his friend sighed, "_Obviously_, we are, as we are the last to arrive."

"Sherlock, be nice. You should be right at home here; the entire place is full of you." This Doctor Watson seemed to be permanently exasperated. I was stuck on something entirely different, as was everyone else in the room, which had suddenly gone silent.

"What did I say?" the newest Watson asked, looking around confusedly.

"You call him _Sherlock?"_ I still do not know which of us asked that.

"What else is he going to call me? It is my name," the newest Hol – er, Sherlock answered. Holmes and I shot each other a look. I do not think he and I ever used one another's given names. Hearing it was entirely strange.

"That is entirely improper!" the first, older Watson huffed, looking highly insulted.

"Wait, are you saying you all go around calling each other Holmes and Watson?" the newest Watson asked, beginning to giggle, of all things. "That's ridiculous."

"Victorian era, John. Everything was very formal. You're probably shocking them all just by wearing a jumper instead of a dinner jacket," Sherlock said in a low voice before sweeping his way across the room.

"They're turning us into children now, aren't they Holmes?" said the oldest Watson. I saw the third Holmes roll his eyes at that, and had to smile, as the gesture was so much like something the real Holmes would do. It was true, this last pair seemed much younger than the rest. Almost as young as Holmes and I had been upon our first meeting.

"Not only that," said the first Holmes, who was watching the fencing match, amused "This one is even shorter than you are." The shorter Holmes then began chasing the other one around the room, and the newest one – Sherlock, I must remember that - rolled his eyes.

"And they called _us _children."

"You _act_ like a child so there's really not much of a difference," John answered. I shook my head. Of all of them, these two had the most unusual way with each other.

"Would either of you care for a drink?" the first Holmes asked our newest arrivals. I noticed the Russian pair eying the newest pair strangely, and I saw that Holmes point out Sherlock's curls and then they both collapsed in giggles.

"Stop!" Holmes – my Holmes – called out. "What the deuce are you all _doing_ here? You can't all be Holmes and Watson!"

"We certainly can!" said the shortest, fourth Holmes. "And we are, isn't that right, Watson?" He slid – _slid_ – across the floor before bounding up to accept a drink. His friend simply rolled his eyes, turning back to his conversation with the newest Watson

"-he really keeps body parts in the living room?"

"Well, according to you, yours keeps poisoning your dog."

I decided after that I did not want to know any more.

Holmes appeared to have given up as the room devolved into chaos once again, the Russian and fourth Watson challenging each other to a drinking game, and the Russian Holmes talking with Sherlock, who apparently knew Russian. Not for long, though; I saw Sherlock smirk oddly as his Russian counterpart stalked away, looking angry. The first Holmes was watching with a tolerant grin, pointing out things of interest to his version of Watson. The third pair was still in our armchairs, which Holmes himself appeared to be trying to get them to vacate with little success. I went over to help him when the chemistry set on the table suddenly gave off a loud boom, and both Sherlock and his shorter predecessor looked shocked and guilty. Neither of them looked apologetic for the cloud of fumes now making its way across the room, and both their Watsons sighed.

Holmes and I looked at each other in despair, and one after another, quietly left and sat on the top step until these…imposters had the courtesy to leave.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes, Doctor!" said a high-pitched voice cheerfully. "It sounds like quite a party up there, may we join in?" I looked down to see the same two mice from last Christmas, and Holmes jumped up, finally angry.

"You can have them all if you like! I am quite finished with every other Holmes and Watson on this Earth. Are you coming, Watson? I am going to spend the evening at my brother's club." He fairly stomped down the steps, and I followed, unable to stop myself from laughing.

"I say, Basil, what an extraordinary reaction," Dawson said to his friend.

Basil sniffed, "You would think they thought they were the only Holmes and Watson in the business."

* * *

><p>AN I started, of course, with ACD Canon!Holmes and Watson but after that the Holmes's and Watsons in order of appearance:

First: Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce.

Second: Vasily Livanov and Vitaly Solomin, from the wonderful 1970s Russian TV series. My absolute favorite Canonical adaptation.

Third: Jeremy Brett and whichever of his Watsons you choose. I prefer Hardwicke so that's what I pictured. Also, they were the most difficult to write of all of them.

Fourth: RDJ and Jude Law. I think I made him more of a caricature, but then those movies are pretty much a caricature of Holmes anyway.

Fifth: Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman.

Sixth: Basil and Dawson again.

If I left out your favorite Holmes and Watson, I apologize!


	11. Chapter 11

Prompt: A fiendish criminal has been commiting Christmas-related crimes!, from Poseidon God of the Seas

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><p>It was a cold, crisp morning in December 1884, and my friend Sherlock Holmes and I were engaged in setting up the few Christmas decorations he would tolerate in our shared rooms. It was not that my friend was in any way like Mr. Dickens' Ebenezer Scrooge, but in his quiet way, he disliked all the ostentation of the season. I, on the other hand, enjoyed being reminded once a year of all that was good in the world, and of having a reason to celebrate with friends.<p>

"Ah, Watson, I do believe we are about to have a case," Holmes remarked, looking out the window, puffing on his pipe as I laid some small pine boughs out on our mantelpiece, carefully avoiding the jackknife keeping Holmes's correspondence in place. "That fellow down there, the choirmaster with his arms full of papers, is heading to our door with utmost urgency."

"How the deuce do you know the man is a choirmaster?" I asked, somewhat amazed.

Holmes smiled, "It is simple, Watson. Only a choirmaster would wear such a make of spectacles, as he must constantly be looking down through them to see music while conducting the singers. It is simplicity itself." I could see the spectacle were specially designed to sit low on the nose, so one could peer through them while facing downward.

Mrs. Hudson duly announced our visitor as Mister Timothy Hidgeons, Master of the St. Mary's Church Choir, and Holmes smiled as he welcomed our visitor inside. "I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Doctor Watson. Please, sit down and tell us your story. It must surely be of some urgency, as you evidently came directly from practice and did not even stop to find a cab." I looked the man over myself, smiling as I came to the same conclusions Holmes had. The papers he clutched appeared to be sheet music, stuffed haphazardly into a binder, and he was terribly winded from the long journey to get here.

Mr. Hidgeons' eyes widened. "Why, Mr. Holmes, if you can tell all that, you must be as skilled as everyone says! I did indeed come from our choir practice and was so intent on reaching you that I barely noticed whether there were any cabs!"

Holmes sat down in the armchair, sitting back with his eyes half closed. I got out my notebook to take any notes that might be beneficial. Mr. Hidgeons took a deep breath and began, "I have been the choirmaster of St. Mary's Church for fifteen years. We are not the most well-known choir in London, but we have a loyal following and I make a decent living. Each year, we hold a Christmas concert, with traditional carols, and it is always a well-attended event. This year, I was forced to order new copies of our sheet music, as our old copies were becoming rather ragged. The company I originally bought them from has long since folded, and I went in search of another company. The music arrived yesterday, and I did not open it until practice today. Just look what they have sent me!"

He handed Holmes several pieces of music, which my friend studied diligently. He made no remark except to raise his eyebrows slightly before handing them to me. I looked them over, at first seeing nothing wrong. Then I determined what was wrong. "Oh, my goodness," I exclaimed. "Someone has changed the titles and lyrics of these songs." The replacements were in less than good taste, to put it mildly. I blushed to see what the trickster had changed "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing" to. I leafed quickly through the rest; not a single song had been left unchanged, and each was more bawdy than the last. I have been a soldier but some of these were phrases even I had not heard.

"You see why I cannot use these!" Mr. Hidgeons cried. "It is a disgrace, and yet, I do not believe the police would take it seriously, which is why, when my lead soprano suggested I come to see you, I did not hesitate."

Holmes sat up, "Do you have the name of the company you ordered these from? And may I keep the music?"

"Yes, I have it right here, and if you need them, they are yours. I certainly have no use for them!" Mr. Hidgeons said. He handed us a card that read "Allegro Music Printers."

"Thank you," Holmes said. "I do not think your problem should take more than a day to solve. Come back tomorrow at this time, and I will update you."

"Thank you, thank you, Mr. Holmes!" Mr. Hidgeons cried.

"What do you make of it, Watson?" Holmes asked me.

I shrugged, "I cannot make anything of it. I would imagine it is a disgruntled employee, seeking to have some revenge on his employer, or else someone playing what they imagine is an amusing prank."

"You almost have it!" Holmes said. But, as usual, he would say no more, taking his coat from the hook and disappearing out the door. I turned back to our half-finished Christmas tree, sighing. It appeared I would have to finish our decorations myself.

Holmes returned several hours later, his arms full of sheet music and collapsing on the chair in a fit of laughter. "Watson, I have never seen a case like this! The fellow has a mind that would let him run a criminal gang to rival any I have yet faced, and he spends his time sending out defaced sheet music!"

"You have discovered him?" I asked.

"Almost, Watson," Holmes answered. "The managers of the Allegro Music Printers were quite aware of the problem. They have been receiving complaints for the past week, but they could not place blame on any of their employees. Even the most recent came with excellent references from other music printers. But what seemed most interesting to me, Watson, was that they both said they had heard of this happening before."

"Indeed?" I asked. "I never have."

Holmes nodded, "They gave me the name of another music company, Messel Press, a company that was absolutely ruined by a similar incident five years previously." He stood up and began looking up the name in his index, handing me the book when he found it.

"'Music Company Fails After Selling Unseemly Music,'" I read aloud.

"They, in turn, were the second such company to fail," Holmes said, flipping pages until he found a previous company, Angelus Sacred Music, that had had a similar end. "I took the names of Allegro's employees to the former manager of Messel Press, and found that one name was the same. The managers of the first company have removed themselves to Scotland, so I was unable to verify the name with them, but I would stake my reputation on it being the same name."

We were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening, and I looked quizzically at Holmes.

"That should be him now, Watson."

Our visitor was a stooped, little man with a drooping mustache and hair liberally streaked with grey. It took me several moments to realize that the fellow was hardly older than either Holmes or myself, such was the toll life had taken on him.

"You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" The fellow said.

"I am," Holmes answered. "You, I take it, are Mr. Donald Glotter?"

Our visitor nodded. "I must say, Mr. Holmes, I have no idea why you have called me here, but I found myself so intrigued that I had to follow it through."

"I think we can explain well enough," Holmes said, placing the defaced sheet music on the table in front of him. Mr. Glotter turned a pale shade of grey, springing to his feet and glaring at Holmes. If he had not been so much smaller than my friend, I would have feared for his safety, so devilishly was our visitor looking at him.

"How did you find me? I took care to make sure no one would ever trace this back to me!"

"Oh, you did an admirable job," Holmes said. "Each manager I spoke to said you were an exemplary employee. They said you were knowledgeable about music, able to work every part of the printing presses skillfully and willing to work extra hours no one else wanted. Incidentally, it was that which led me to you. Only someone who worked alone at night could do something like this and remain undetected."

Mr. Glotter sat back on the settee, the steel in his eyes gone. "You are right, Mr. Holmes. I first worked for Angelus Sacred Music after I graduated from the Conservatory. I took the position only because I thought I would soon find a position as a musician."

"You are a clarinetist, I believe, or an oboist?" Holmes asked.

"Clarinet. How did you know?"

"Only a clarinetist has shoulders stooped in precisely that manner," he answered. "Please continue."

"After several years there with no luck, I was so angry that lesser musicians received places in orchestras when I practiced constantly with nothing to show for it. So I determined that if I could not play professionally, I would make it impossible for anyone to. I put Angelus out of business, and moved to Messel on their recommendation, and now I am at Allegro, and they would have followed the same pattern. There would have been no concerts at all, but now I am found out and it is all ruined!" Mr. Glotter sighed with a deep sadness, and I found myself reflecting on the nature of setbacks; how sometimes they led to some new path that one may not have anticipated otherwise, but at other times it led down a dark path from which there was all too often no escape.

Holmes stood up, "Well, you have led us on a merry chase, but luckily for you, replacing the lyrics to Christmas carols is not yet illegal. I warn you, though, should I hear anything more from you, I shall not be so lenient."

Mr. Glotter nodded, "That is only fair, Mr. Holmes. I had my fun, and now I've been caught for it. I've accepted my lot in life." He put his hat on and Holmes watched him until he left, walking slowly away from Baker Street.

"Well, Watson, that was an unusual little case," my friend remarked. "No doubt Mr. Hidgeons will be glad to hear we have caught the fellow when he calls tomorrow."

"Indeed," I said, although I almost felt sorry for poor Mr. Glotter. It must make one very bitter not to achieve any of what one sets out to. I wondered what I would do in his situation, had I failed to make my way as a doctor.

"Now, that case has put me in the mood for some music," Holmes declared. "Something festive, I think, Watson?"

"Please," I said, settling myself into the armchair, listening to my friend's renditions of carols as Mrs. Hudson brought up some hot chocolate for us to enjoy. All appeared right with the world this Christmas.


	12. Chapter 12

Prompt: the scarlet thread of murder, from Ennui Enigma

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><p>Mr. Petters, the literary agent for the magazine, the fifth such person I had seen, surveyed me across the large, mahogany desk. Used as I was to Holmes doing much the same every time I entered the sitting room, I still found it disconcerting from someone I did not know.<p>

"I have read your volume, Doctor Watson," Mr. Petters said. "And while I agree it has promise, there were several instances where I felt it would be inappropriate for our magazine to publish."

Of course. Every other magazine I had visited had said something very similar. "May I ask what instances?" I asked. "If they are so small, perhaps I could change them." I was loath to change anything about my story, having worked on it very diligently for several months, but I was growing desperate.

Mr. Petters sighed, "Some of your phrasing is a bit flowery, Doctor. See here, " The scarlet thread of murder'? That is a little poetic to refer to these brutal crimes, isn't it? "

"That is how my friend described it though," I said. "He grows quite poetic at times when discussing his art, and I wish to portray him as accurately as I can." I had only changed certain facts in the case, usually to protect the identities of those involved. Holmes's character I had changed very little, only leaving out the small moments between us that led to our forming a firm friendship. Those, after all, had nothing to do with the plot or his observational powers, which is what I imagined the reading public would be interested in.

"That it's another point," Mr. Petters said. "This fellow Sherlock Holmes seems almost too fictional. He is like something out of Mr. Poe's stories instead of a real person. It smacks of mimicry."

"I assure you, he is as real as you or I," I said coldly. I was somewhat affronted by the accusation, remembering how Holmes himself had reacted when I said something very similar upon meeting him. "I admit that the success of the Dupin stories did suggest to me that I might have success with a similar subject, but I did not write this merely to copy another author's works. Good day." I pushed my hat onto my head, and stalked out rather angrily.

Once I reached the street, my anger faded somewhat, to be replaced by despondency. All five magazines had said something similar; that there were far too many detectives in print to make room for another, that the subject matter was altogether too brutal for publication in any respectable magazine, that my writing was not up to the standard they were seeking. The excuses continued on and on, and I was becoming quite discouraged.

I almost thought about giving up when I remembered Holmes, probably still seated where I had left him in the armchair, waiting for a case. He had, by now, had several cases of import, but his primary source of work was still the official police, and interesting cases were too rare for his liking. If I could provide him with some publicity through my writing, it would mean fewer of these days when black mood overtook him because of a lack of work. While he had been overly enthusiastic about it, I believe he recognized the impact my writing could have on his career and so granted his permission.

I had, seemingly without being aware of it, reached Baker Street and opened the door. "Oh, good afternoon, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson greeted me as I entered.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," I said wearily.

"Still no luck?" she asked. I shook my head, and she clucked her tongue sympathetically. "I would have thought plenty of people would be interested in all these adventures you and Mr. Holmes have."

"I would have thought so, too," I said. "Apparently my writing is either not original enough, or else too improper for publication." I struggled to keep the bitterness out of my voice, but after the amount of time I had spent working on my little story, I was more disappointed than perhaps I should have been that no one else seemed interested. I did, after all, have a good and steady medical career and did not truly need the extra money, but I had wanted to write for as long I could remember. It was a dream I had all but given up on in the face of the realities of life, but I had thought that Holmes's cases might provide me with the means to return to that dream.

"Perhaps you should find your own literary agent," Mrs. Hudson suggested. "It seems to me someone already in the business might be better able to find a home for your - what is it called, again?"

"_A Study in Scarlet," _I answered. "How would I go about finding a literary agent?" The idea had merit, but I had no idea where I might start.

Mrs. Hudson frowned, thinking. "Well, there was a young man who lodged upstairs before you and Mr. Holmes moved in. He was a doctor, too, but he did some writing on the side. I used to hear him, scratching away with his pen, just like you. But I remember him saying he had some friends he had represented as authors."

My face broke into a smile, "Mrs. Hudson, you may have saved me! Do you remember his name?"

"Yes, I have his card here, let me find it." She went into the kitchen, returning with a calling card. "He left that when he moved out. I hope it works for you, Doctor. And remember to save me a copy when it's published! I want to read it too."

"I will, Mrs. Hudson, thank you!" Reading the card, I resolved to call on this fellow tomorrow, as it couldn't hurt my chances. It already seemed as if this Dr. Arthur C. Doyle and I would have a great deal in common.


	13. Chapter 13

Prompt: Write about one humorous Christmas Mycroft remembers having with Sherlock, from silvermouse

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><p>December 1875<p>

Mycroft made his way into the Accounts offices at Whitehall exactly on schedule, as usual. During the Christmas season, this was more than enough to distinguish him, as every other employee seemed to be running an average of twelve minutes late due to Christmas shopping and other stresses of the season. Mycroft found he could not be bothered. Since his father's death several years previously, the Holmes's had not had a large family Christmas, and this year, since Sherlock had finally moved to London on his own, their mother decided she would rather spend the season visiting her relatives in France.

Mycroft was rather glad. It meant he would not have to interrupt his routine with carols and pudding and everything that went along with Christmas. If he could have come into work on the day, he would have, but even he knew that was impossible. So instead, he was looking forward to a quiet day at home with some port and the week's newspapers.

Then he groaned inwardly. Upon Sherlock's arrival in London, their mother had sent Mycroft a letter asking him to watch out for his wayward younger brother.

…_he has never had the direction in life that you do, Mycroft, and I fear he will need some guidance. Without letting on, of course; you know what he would think about that!_

This probably meant he would be expected to spend the holiday with Sherlock and give a report as to how he looked and how he was making his way in London. Left to their own devices, the Holmes brothers would have probably have ignored Christmas entirely, but if he had to, he supposed adding Sherlock to his quiet day at home wouldn't be too much of a struggle.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," Bennet, the head clerk, said to Mycroft, who looked up, somewhat startled. After ten years here, Mycroft had established himself as indispensable, likely to rise to the head of whichever department he chose within only a few years, but he had drawn a clear line between work and his personal life. He made an appearance only at those social events that he felt could not be missed without damaging his career prospects, and had formed no friendships at all. Perhaps that was why Bennet looked so nervous now?

"What is it, Bennet? Did the Foreign Office request more than their budget of stationary?"

"What? No, it's not about that. It's just, the office Christmas party is next week, and I was trying to determine who would be there."

Why had the man even bothered _asking _him? Mycroft didn't look up from his work. "You know I dislike parties, Bennet."

"Well, yes, I do," Bennet said. He lowered his voice, "I have it from the Domestic Office, sir, that the Home Minister will be there. Wanted to 'meet the lower decks' so to speak. The word is that he's looking for someone to replace Stackington when he retires next year."

Mycroft considered. Stackington was secretary to the Minister of the Treasury, a position of some authority, and perfectly suited to someone who had spent the last ten years in the Accounts office. It would be a way to put his name deeper into government circles; already other departments knew to come to Mycroft when they needed facts and figures cross-referenced. He sighed, then told Bennet he would be there.

"You may bring whoever you choose, you know." Bennet continued. "It is a good place to make introductions."

"You, Mycroft, are attending a party and you want _me _to attend it with you?" Sherlock asked incredulous. "Are you sure you are well?"

"Perfectly well, thank you," Mycroft said calmly. "It is not so much a party as an opportunity to meet others in my line of work. Why they insist on calling it a party, I don't know. Besides, if you insist on trying to make a career out of being a detective, you simply must have some official allies."

"I was hoping _you _would be my official ally," Sherlock said, pouting.

"You never know, Sherlock, maybe one of them will have a case for you. Or are you busier than you appear?" Mycroft looked his brother over, noting the patches in his jacket and the slightly too-large shirt. He was certainly not making a good start in the field of detection.

Sherlock shot him a dirty look. "Fine, Mycroft, I will go."

Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes arrived at the smoke-filled club about twenty minutes after the party had started. The place was full of official politicians, all discussing current events over glasses of port and sherry. Mycroft saw his brother's eyes widen; for all his confidence, Sherlock was still barely twenty-one and had never been in this sort of environment before.

"The Foreign Minister is right over there," Mycroft pointed out, and Sherlock snapped to attention.

"Yes, I can tell _that _, Mycroft, the man has chosen an expensive Indian tobacco and might was well have a medal factory on his chest with all those honorary medals he is wearing. Of course he is the Foreign Minister." Mycroft smiled to himself. That was much better.

"Mr Holmes!" Admiral Cartwright came over and clapped Mycroft on the shoulder, ignoring his visible wince. "We don't usually see you at these parties, do we?"

Mycroft forced himself to smile, "No, I usually do not make a point of attending them. I am looking for the Home Minister, is he here yet?"

"No, I don't think so," Cartwright said.

"Tell me, do you often attend the vaudeville shows or only around the holiday season?" Sherlock asked innocently, inserting himself into the conversation.

"I beg your pardon?" Cartwright asked. Mycroft hurried to intervene.

"This is my brother, Sherlock. He is…interested in joining the Metropolitan Police." Mycroft ignored Sherlock's look of utter shock, stepping on his foot to make him be quiet.

"Oh, well then you should talk to Jones over there, he's the Commissioner of Police."

"I have quite a few things to say to him in any case about the manner in which the police solve crimes," Sherlock said. "Do say hello to your mistress for me. That _is _why you attend the vaudeville, is it not?"

Mycroft quickly shoved Sherlock out of the way as Cartwright stared after him. "Sherlock, what the devil are you doing?"

"Don't tell me you couldn't see it? There was a ring on his finger and a vaudeville ticket in his pocket. He came directly from there to here, except the performance would not start until around now. He bought a ticket purely to gain entrance prior to the show. Conclusion: he has a mistress he was visiting."

"Of course I could see it; I just do not feel the need to bandy about everyone's private business!" Mycroft said. "And he has multiple mistresses in more than one vaudeville company, Sherlock, isn't it obvious?"

"Oh, yes the program stuck in his other pocket. I see it now."

"Mr. Holmes!" Mycroft turned around to see the Home Minister coming toward them. He turned to his brother.

"If you cannot behave yourself, make yourself scarce." Sherlock did so, wandering away to get himself a drink.

"Minister," Mycroft said. They were soon engaged in a conversation about the road tolls and how they were unexpectedly affecting the trade of wool, and Mycroft felt he would soon have the promotion he wanted, when a commotion on the other side of the room caught their attention.

"How dare you suggest that police officers search no farther than their own noses when investigating crimes?"

"How else do you explain the conviction of young Abner Grott, who only came into London to deliver wheat, but was arrested for murder last year? Because the police saw a young man who could barely read and determined that he must be a brutal murderer, because it could not possibly be the highly respected lawyer the eyewitness saw leaving the scene!"

"The lawyer had gone to fetch a doctor!"

"Then why did no doctor ever arrive?" Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room, facing Commissioner Jones, arguing calmly. The Commissioner was becoming increasingly red in the face, arguing back and forth.

"I do not have to listen to young upstarts who do not have the least idea of how the police operate."

"I thought you said your brother wanted to join the police?" Admiral Cartwright said, joining Mycroft. He seemed to be enjoying watching Jones seemingly get the better of Sherlock.

"I may have meant he wanted to replace the police," Mycroft said calmly, then sighed at Cartwright's blank expression. No one ever understood his sense of humor.

"I will never have any more respect for Scotland Yard than I do for…why, for this Christmas pudding!" Sherlock declared.

"Well, if that's what you think, you can _have _the blasted Christmas pudding!" Jones yelled, losing all control and shoving the cake into Sherlock's shirt. The room fell silent, watching. Jones seemed to be shocked that he had actually done something like, while Sherlock simply tried to get the pudding out of his clothes. Mycroft held his breath, thinking that he could almost certainly say goodbye to his career when suddenly, the Home Minister started to laugh.

"I haven't seen anything so funny in years," he said, coming over to Mycroft, still laughing. "Of course, we'll have to have them bother removed, but it's about time someone gave old Jones a talking-to like that! This is the best Christmas party I've been to in years, now where did that sherry get to?"

Mycroft stared after him, then shook his head, following the staff out the door where the staff was currently occupied in throwing his brother out, along with Commissioner Jones.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"

"Yes, quite all right," Sherlock said. "I suppose it was worth ruining my shirt for the chance to tell the police what I really think of them."

Jones stood up, waving a hand at them menacingly, "I warn you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you will regret doing this."

"Oh, I don't think I will," Sherlock said. "I rather think you will regret severing all ties with me. I expect your Yarders will come to regard my help as essential." Mycroft could not help but giggle at the look on Jones's face as he disappeared down the street.

"Is your career destroyed completely?" Sherlock asked.

"Surprisingly, I don't think so," Mycroft answered. "The Home Minister was rather amused by the whole event, and somehow I think he will remember me when the time comes to promote someone."

"Good," Sherlock said. "I would have been sorry about that. Although I don't think you will be very welcome in that club again."

Mycroft shrugged, "I don't care much for clubs. Unless there were one in which the members were forbidden to speak to each other." He paused, realizing he had hit upon an idea. "Perhaps I should start one."

Sherlock laughed, "That, Mycroft, is a club which I even I would likely spend some time."


	14. Chapter 14

Prompt: Plum Pudding Burning, from Sendai

A/N I wanted to thank everyone who's been reviewing this, it's my first story to ever break 100 reviews and I really appreciate it! It makes me day reading what everyone has to say! :)

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><p>It was only a few hours before the Christmas party my dear Mary and I had decided to host; and the entire house was thrown into chaos the like of which I had not seen since moving out of my Baker Street rooms. This chaos was unlikely to result in attempted stabbings or arrests in my living room, as it would have in the old days, but it was more action than our little house had seen in the months since we had been married. I tied my cravat with a satisfied smile and made my way downstairs, where Mary was occupied in rearranging the winter plants she had ordered set up around the house.<p>

"Oh, John, you look wonderful," she said when she saw me.

"As do you, my dear," I answered. She was resplendent in a deep red velvet dress with lace trim that accentuated her pale skin and golden hair.

She giggled, "Stop it, I only have a few hours to make sure everything is perfect before our guests begin arriving."

I stepped back, holding my hands up innocently, "I'll stay out of your way. I hope you do not mind that I told Holmes to arrive early?"

"No, not at all, I expect the two of you will keep each other busy while I finish all the last minute arrangements," she answered distractedly. "I do hope it all turns out well, I should hate for all this to be ruined."

I took her hand gently, "Mary, it will be wonderful. Don't worry about it." I was about to kiss her hand when I sniffed, then frowned. Something smelled…odd.

"John? What is it?" Mary asked anxiously.

"I doubt it is anything of importance," I said. "I only smelled something burning slightly, but I'm sure it is nothing."

Mary's brows knitted together, then she gasped. "The plum pudding!" She rushed into the kitchen, where smoke was billowing from the oven.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I don't know what happened! I turned my back for a minute to peel the potatoes and it went up like a candle!" the cook wailed.

"It's all right, I know it wasn't your fault," Mary said kindly as she pulled the now charred pudding out of the oven. "Oh, John, it's all ruined!"

I waved the smoke out of my face, examining the pudding. Baking was not something I was terribly good at, but even to my untrained eyes the pudding did appear to be beyond saving.

"We don't have time to make something else!" Mary said. I contemplated the problem; we must have some sort of dessert to serve our guests, but there was no bakery that would be able to make us something fresh on such short notice.

The cook, Mary and I stood there for several moments, staring at each other in horror. I'm sure she was imagining all our friends discussing our party, saying that we had not even served the dessert. It was the first time we had invited all of our close friends to our home; in the absence of either of our families, we did not wish to spend the Christmas season entirely alone, and thought a Christmas party would be a nice way of thanking them for their friendship over the years.

I was about to ask what we should do when I heard footsteps in our hallway. "Watson? I hope you do not mind, your door was left open."

Holmes! I had entirely forgotten about him. I stuck my head out of the kitchen. "In here, Holmes."

He followed me into the kitchen, wrinkling his nose. "Is something burning?"

I gestured helplessly toward the remains of the plum pudding. "That _was _our dessert. Now I'm afraid it is useless."

Holmes leaned over the pudding, sniffing. "Plum pudding?" He asked. I nodded, and he smiled slightly. "That is my favorite."

"I know," I said sadly, surveying the mess.

"That's why we chose it," Mary added.

"Well, we cannot have you unable to serve dessert," Holmes said, taking off his dinner jacket and rolling up his sleeves. "Let's see what can be made of this." He found a knife and began cutting through the pudding, giving a little cry of excitement. "You see, Watson, I was right! It is only the outside that is burned. The inside is still mostly salvageable. In parts it may not even be completely cooked."

He expertly slid the knife around so it cut off the burned outside, leaving us with the middle section. Mary tilted her head, looking at it.

"It does seem a bit…small," she finally said.

In answer, Holmes simply found a pan (he trailed bits of burned crust behind him, and I saw our cook follow him frantically with a rag) and put the remains of the pudding in. He flattened it until he took up the whole of the pan and stepped back. "It shall be more like a thin cake, but there should be enough to go around. It will not need as long to cook, so lower the flames and place it in the oven only a half hour before serving."

The cook nodded, and Mary breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much, Mr. Holmes. I don't know what we should have done if you had not come when you did!"

"It was nothing, my dear Mrs. Watson," Holmes answered graciously. "I was not about to let your Christmas party be ruined if I could help."

Mary smiled then ran to the front door to check on some other aspect of the party. "Make sure you do not have any of the burned pudding on your dress!" I called after her, knowing that the dress was her favorite and she would be upset if it were ruined.

I turned back to Holmes, who was putting his dinner jacket back on. "How the deuce did you know what to do?" It seemed to me that no matter how much I learned about him, Holmes was still surprising me. "I had no idea you knew anything about cooking."

Holmes smiled, "You remember what I told Mr. Hudson on the occasion of her lost mixing bowl? That cooking was merely chemistry with edible components? "I affirmed that I did, and he continued. "Before I was permitted to do chemical experiments in my room – due to the entirely mistaken belief that I would cause the house to explode – I spent a great deal of time in the kitchens with our cook, learning the basics. It was very much the same; only a certain amount of each component, mixed in the proper way produced an edible result, while one incorrect step caused disaster."

I resisted the urge to laugh, "Well, Holmes, that is not how I learned introductory chemistry, but it does seem to have worked." Although I wasn't sure the belief that he would cause the house to explode was mistaken, considering how often he and I had been driven outside to escape some smell he had concocted in our Baker Street rooms. "And it did allow you to save our dessert."

"Precisely. Two skills learned at once," Holmes said. "I would say that is a bargain. Now, I have a case I have been interested in bringing to your attention, if you would care to hear it?"

"Certainly, Holmes," I answered. "I should like nothing better."


	15. Chapter 15

Prompt: Holmes and Watson meet a mischievous fairy. What will happen next? From silvermouse

A/N I stretched the definition of fairy slightly - I couldn't come up with a response otherwise. Inspired by all the recent prompt answers involving the Irregulars

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><p>"Has there been any word about the Montaine case?" I asked Sherlock Holmes one morning as we sat over our eggs and bacon.<p>

"None as of yet, Watson," my friend answered. "But young Tommy Prescott will be here this morning to receive his instructions for the day. I have no doubt that it will be cleared up by tomorrow." Tommy Prescott was one of the most promising of the Baker Street Irregulars, gradually taking over much of the responsibility for them as Wiggins grew up. I knew Holmes was most interested in his progress, perhaps even enough to send him to the police academy as he had for Wiggins. A knock on the door followed, and Holmes stood up. "Ah, I believe there is our young friend now."

He opened the door to reveal a lanky young boy wearing a cap still several sizes too large, and a small girl waving a stick, wearing a mismatched assortment of layers. "Sorry, Mr. Holmes," young Tommy said by way of apology. "Lady who usually watches my sister while Mam's a' work fell ill today."

"That is no matter," Holmes said. "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would be glad to watch out for her while you are out."

"Holmes," I said quietly. "Mrs. Hudson has gone out on visits all day. Surely you remember?"

"Oh, yes," Holmes said. "Well, then, Watson, perhaps you would not mind looking after little -?"

"Molly," Tommy provided.

"Not at all," I said. Little Molly looked up at me shyly, and Tommy pushed her gently into the room, whispering our names to her. Holmes swung the door shut as he left, and I heard him speaking quietly to Tommy outside.

"Well, then," I said, turning to Molly. "How are you, my dear?"

She broke out into a wide grin, waving the stick high. "I'm a fairy!"

"Oh?" I asked. "And, er, what kind of fairy are you?"

"A magic one!" she answered. "I got a magic wand, see?" She pushed the stick into my face, and I couldn't help but smile. She began to prance around the room, doing "magic," which seemed to consist of pointing the stick at various objects, waiting for them to do something. She frowned until she reached the fireplace, when one of the coals happened to pop at exactly the moment she pointed her "wand" at it. She smiled at me triumphantly.

"See? Told you it was magic."

"I can see that," I said gravely. "What else can it do?"

"It can take your nose away, like Mam does to me sometimes," little Molly said gravely. She pointed the stick at my nose, and I promptly held my hand on top of it.

"Oh, no, where did my nose go?" I asked. Molly started to giggle as I pretended to search for it, moving plates and papers around.

"There 'tis, Doctor Watson," she said, waving the "wand" at a random spot of floor.

"So it is!" I said, scooping it up and placing it carefully back on my face. "Good as new."

I sat back in my armchair, watching little Molly do "magic" on all our belongings. I hid a smile as she clandestinely moved several of the china plates under the settee; presumably part of a disappearing spell. As I watched, it gave me an idea that seemed, at the time, much too good to pass up.

"Molly?" I said. She came closer, and I lowered my voice. "You know my friend Mr. Holmes is a detective?" She nodded.

"He fixes problems for people. An' Tommy helps him sometimes!"

"That he does," I said. "How would you like a fairy mission?" Her eyes grew wide and she nodded again. "Well," I continued. "Sometimes Mr. Holmes becomes very bored. How about you use your magic to give him some small problems to fix, and then I shall find you some biscuits and tell you a story? Does that sound good?"

"Yes, Doctor Watson," she said, before scampering off to the window to begin. She examined the curtains and the dining table before moving over to Holmes's chemistry set. Thankfully, he had put away all the remnants of his last experiment, so the only things currently there were empty beakers and vials. Molly very quietly picked up a couple of them, searching for a convenient hiding place. She pointed the stick at our ventilation shaft (installed after a few too many malodorous experiments), opened it and stuck the beakers inside. Moving on to the settee and coffee table, she found Holmes's latest monograph, waiting to be edited, and slipped it behind my writing desk. Lastly, she found Holmes's cigarette, which I had given him many years ago, and hid it under the cushion of his chair.

I smiled to myself, "Good work, Molly. Now, let's go see about those biscuits."

Holmes came back several hours later with Tommy in tow, finding me sitting in the armchair with Molly in my lap. I had spent the last several hours making up stories, all with fairies in them, as per her request. "And then the magnificent fairy Princess SugarSparkle led the people back to the fairy kingdom and they all had a grand party. The End.," I finished. I glared at Holmes and he very obviously hid a smile in his hand.

"Come on, Molly, time to go home," Tommy said. "Thank you, Doctor, for looking after her."

"It was no trouble at all. She's a sweet little girl," I said. "Goodbye, Molly."

"Goodbye, Doctor," she said with another bright smile as they left.

"Well, Watson, you appear to have done an admirable job as a child-minder," Holmes said, sitting down in his armchair with the newspaper. I hastily hid my laughter in a cough as he jumped up again. "What the deuce am I sitting on?" He pulled the cigarette case out of the cushions, looking at it quizzically. "How did this get here?"

"I certainly don't know," I answered. "Perhaps we were visited by fairies."

Holmes sent me a withering look and I innocently turned back to my own reading.

"Watson, where are my beakers?" Holmes asked, standing in front of his chemistry set, looking disgruntled. "I'm certain I left them here after I completed the last set of experiments."

I shrugged. "Fairies act in mysterious ways."

"Something is going on here, Watson," he said. "And since when do you believe in fairies?"

I merely smiled and didn't answer. The entire ruse was worth it when he nearly stepped on the errant plate under the settee later that same day.

"Hasn't Mrs. Hudson been looking for this?" he asked, holding the plate up. "She asked me to try and find it for her. And, if I'm not mistaken, wasn't the draft of my latest monograph on this table?"

I burst out laughing, unable to keep up the ruse any longer. "Your monograph is behind my writing desk, and the beakers are in the ventilation shaft."

Holmes knitted his brows together, finding both items exactly where I said they would be. "Watson, what is going on?"

"You remember when little Molly was here?" I asked. "It turns out she has quite a mischievous turn and was more than willing to help me play a small trick on you."

Holmes stood there in utter shock, and I savored the moment. It was not often I managed to deceive him, or even _surprise _him, and I felt it was worth being a trifle smug. To _my _surprise, however, Holmes recovered himself quickly and collapsed into his chair, laughing. "Watson, I can say with absolute truth I would never have expected this of you. You might have made a fair criminal yourself, you know."

"Perhaps little Molly will be as well," I said. "She was, after all, responsible for most of it."

"Yes, perhaps I should ask her to join the Irregulars when she is a trifle older," Holmes mused. "If she managed to lead me in circles at the age of five, who knows what she will be capable of in ten years?"


	16. Chapter 16

Prompt: A Decidedly Awful Meal at Simpson's, from TemporarilyAbaft

A/N I decided since Watson definitely got the better of Holmes last prompt, I should turn the tables a bit.

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><p>Winter in London is the most dreary of seasons; the snow falls with regularity and quickly turns slushy and grey with the fog. It was on a day such as this that Holmes and I were making our way back to Baker Street. It had been a long day spent researching the criminal records of every man Holmes suspected of being the opium smuggler we were searching for. Holmes was disgruntled, having found nothing that he expected in the criminals records, and spent the walk back lost in his own thoughts.<p>

As we passed Simpson's, however, Holmes suddenly led me in without a word, and I barely had a moment to spare to be grateful he'd remembered that we needed to eat. We sat down at a table in the back, and Holmes began discoursing on the medicinal benefits of honey. It was a subject that had begun to interest him recently, although I could not see the reasoning. Still, I was glad enough to be able to eat and listen to conversation that was about something other than the logistics of opium smuggling.

My good mood did not last long, however. No sooner had I ordered my dinner, a fish filet I always favored when we ate here, did the waiter return to tell me, with apologies, that they had run out of that particular type of fish earlier that day.

"No matter," I said, although I was disappointed, having begun to look forward to it. "I will have a salad and the steak, instead."

"Very good, sir," the waiter answered. "I apologize, again."

Homes, of course, ignored this, taking up his topic again as soon as I had sorted my dinner out. He was interrupted all too soon, showever, by a different waiter, whose eyes were wide. On another day, I might have smiled; the lad had clearly recognized Holmes and was in a state of awe. Today, however, I threw him a glare and he cowered, slipping away quietly.

Holmes laughed quietly at my annoyance, "Watson, you are in quite a tetchy mood today!"

"Well, I do not think it is too much to ask to be able to eat in peace," I said, looking askance at my friend. He was ordinarily so reticent he spoke to no one in the course of the day besides his clients and myself. "I suspect you are disagreeing with me merely to spite me," I continued.

Holmes conceded with a smile. "Perhaps. It is most entertaining debating with you, my dear fellow."

We were interrupted yet again by the arrival of my salad, which to my dismay, appeared to be wilting on my plate. It was so small there were hardly any components in it aside from some weak lettuce, and I called the waiter to our table. "This appears to be rather smaller than I was expecting."

The waiter nodded sadly. "I am sorry, sir, but our winter salad selection is smaller than in months previously. The lack of fresh vegetables, you understand."

"I have had had winter salads here before and they were never like this!" I protested, before finally sending the man away. "Has the management here changed, do you think?" I asked Holmes abruptly, eyeing his soup with some jealousy. _His _order had taken place without any fuss.

"I doubt it," he answered. "I don't think they would still be called 'Simpson's' if the Simpson family were not still the owners."

"You have a point," I said grumpily, knowing I was acting childishly, and not caring much about it, at the moment.

Our dinner arrived soon after, and I was pleased to find that the steak, while not what I had wanted, appeared to be in good condition. Holmes attacked his pork with gusto while I settled in to enjoy what remained of my dinner.

"Well, Watson, is the steak to your satisfaction?" Holmes asked, and I almost thought there was a smile playing around his lips.

"Not exactly," I said. "It is a trifle undercooked for my tastes. Still, compared to everything else tonight, it is far superior."

Just then, the waiter appeared again to refill our wine glasses. As I watched, he nearly walked into another dining patron, and in his efforts to avoid a collision, tripped over an errant fold in the carpet and began to fall. As he fell, the open bottle of wine slipped from his grasp and flew through the air. Dumping its contents all over me, and only me. Somehow every other occupant of the restaurant, including Holmes, who was only sitting across from me, was spared.

I blinked, startled, trying to get the wine out of my eyes, then realizing the rest of the wine was coursing its way down my jacket in little rivulets. I felt droplets making their way down my shirt, and I slowly pulled out my handkerchief to wipe my face.

The entire restaurant was silent, apparently waiting to see what I would do next. The waiter, who had recovered his bearing, looking at me in trepidation. Then, to my surprise, the silence was broken by the sound of high laughter, coming from Sherlock Holmes, of all people.

I stared at him in complete and utter shock, and not a little anger, and he waved a hand through his laughter. "I am sorry, Watson. I know this has been a most trying evening for you. It is just that so much has gone wrong, it is altogether too funny!"

"I'm glad you find my misfortunes humorous, Holmes," I said testily. Then I groaned aloud.

"What is it?" Holmes asked, still laughing.

"Some of the wine has made its way into my shoes," I said.

This was, apparently, the funniest thing that had happened all night, because my friend was unable to speak for laughing for most of the next fifteen minutes. I supposed I could have seen the humor had it not been me in the situation, but as it was, I wanted only to return home and lounge about in my dressing gown.

"I believe that was one of the worst meals that we have ever had," Holmes said conversationally when he had recovered himself and we were on our way home, after being given our meal for free in recompense.

"Yes, I wonder what happened to the place that they served us so badly," I answered. "Although _you _seemed to enjoy it."

"In my defense, Watson, it was a most trying day, and I was sorely in need of some humor," Holmes said. "I shall make it up to you when we return to Baker Street. I believe I can convince Mrs. Hudson to let us have some of her Christmas cookies a trifle early, and I have a new violin piece I would very much like you to hear."

"That is the best idea you have had all day," I answered gratefully. Holmes began to flag down a cab, when he suddenly reached into his pocket, then the other one, looking panicked.

"What is it?" I asked warily, seeing him turn to me, looking rather guilty.

"Watson, I am afraid I left my wallet at Scotland Yard."


	17. Chapter 17

Prompt: Jumping Fences, from cjnwriter

* * *

><p>It was an unseasonably warm night in 1882 when Sherlock Holmes and I found ourselves in a rather tight situation. He had been hired by a landowner some miles from London, who was disturbed over the loss of some prize cattle, and the lack of evidence in the case. I suspect Holmes was somewhat bored by the case; while interesting, it did not have nearly as many unusual details as he preferred in his work, but in those days he was sorely in need of funds and could not very well refuse such a client.<p>

I, having little else to do, had accompanied him to the countryside, listening to him grouse during the entire trip that the case hardly required his presence, and that all he would likely end up doing was spending the night in a field waiting for cattle thieves who would never arrive. "It will be like one of those Western novels you are always reading, only with far less action and even less to occupy the mind," he said irritably.

"Hmm, yes," I said, distracted by the lovely country scenery passing by through the windows. It was rare for me to leave London, and I was grateful he had thought to include me on this case, although I could not imagine why he had.

As if proving my point, Holmes noticed that I was not paying attention to him and let out a sigh of exasperation, turning to his newspaper. On our arrival, he spoke only to discuss the case, or rather, to mull over theories and evidence at me.

I often wondered whether he wanted a companion on his cases simply so he would not appear unhinged while talking to himself.

The night after we arrived, we did indeed find ourselves in a field that appeared perfectly peaceful. Numerous cows were around, either sleeping or grazing quietly, and Holmes and I had situated ourselves near a tree on the far end of the pasture.

"Tonight should determine if there is indeed a case here," Holmes remarked to me. "There is no question that the cows have disappeared, and that there is little evidence as to where they have disappeared to, but there is equally little evidence that they have done anything other than escape on their own."

"You said yourself no part of the fence would have allowed them to escape," I reminded him, and he frowned. I could see the case was beginning to interest him in spite of himself.

"Well, we shall find out tonight," Holmes said before lapsing into silence. I was content to sit back against the tree, enjoying the warm summer breeze and the view of the stars, normally hidden behind fog in London.

After some hours, there was some rustling near the cattle, and Holmes sat up next to me, listening intently to any noise. The resemblance to a bloodhound on the scent was uncanny. "Watson, do you hear that?" he asked me.

"Some small animal in the bushes, perhaps?" I suggested. We both moved closer, to provide ourselves with a better view. Within only a few minutes, we heard voices. We were too far away to make out what they were saying, but we could see that there appeared to be three of them, holding ropes and knives.

Holmes lifted his head slightly to try to determine what the cattle thieves - for that was undoubtedly what they were - said to each other. Unfortunately, given his height, it was already difficult for him to crouch down low enough to remain undetected, and the movement alerted the leader to our presence.

"Quick, Watson, this way!" Holmes cried and tore off as the three ruffians shouted at us and began chase. I ran after him, clambering over the fence only a few second after he did. If he had hoped that the cattle thieves would leave us in favor of their prize, he was incorrect. They continued the chase through the next pasture, and the next one after that. I was not as badly off as I had been just after returning from Afghanistan, but I was still not in the same physical condition as my fellow-lodger, and with each second, I fell further behind him. As I neared the next fence, a particularly high one, I knew I would not be able to jump over it as easily as Holmes had, and sure enough, as soon as I reached it and began to climb, the lead thief grabbed onto my ankle and pulled me back.

I fell down to the ground with a cry, and turned over just in time to see the three thieves surrounding me. The leader raised his knife, and I reached for my walking stick, only to have one of the others step on my hand so I couldn't. I gasped in pain, and then, seemingly out of of nowhere, Holmes had jumped over the fence and was standing in between me and the three cattle thieves. They stepped back, and I thought that he must have looked truly intimidating. In no time at all, he had delivered a savage uppercut to the ringleader, and the other two merely looked at each other and ran, supporting their leader between them.

Holmes glared after them. "I saw quite enough to point them out to the police." Then he extended a hand to help me up. "Are you all right, Watson?"

"Yes, I'm fine, Holmes," I answered, brushing the dirt off my jacket. "I'm afraid I was unable to make the fence, and they got the better of me rather quickly." I flushed in embarrassment; only a few years ago, I would never have fallen behind in the first place.

Holmes waved a hand carelessly, "Think nothing of it, Watson. When I saw you were no longer behind me, I realized what must have happened. I should have ensured we stay together. Thankfully I got here in time."

Was he..._worried_ about what might have happened? I had never yet seen Holmes as anything other than a coldly rational mind, seemingly devoid of the emotions and attachments most of us found necessary.

"Well, thank you," I said. "I hope you will not rethink your decision to allow me to accompany you on cases?"

"Not at all, Watson," Holmes said, sounding surprised. "I am simply not used to having anyone else with me, but I have seen you handle yourself quite well on these occasions and one time will not change that. In fact, you have been a great help on more than one case so far."

"Oh," I said, unable to keep from smiling widely. I don't think I realized until that moment how much I enjoyed taking part in Holmes's cases. "Well, I'm very glad you think so."

Holmes smiled, beginning to walk back to the village, "I think I will begin to show you some of the tenets of singlestick fighting; if you are to accompany me regularly, it would be useful for you to defend yourself easily."

"Holmes," I said, beginning to laugh. "Remind me to show you my rugby tackle. You might learn something."

He did, indeed, learn that something the next week. It was worth hearing him complain of bruising for the next two weeks to see the look on his face when I was able to knock him off his feet with one tackle.


	18. Chapter 18

Prompt: Scrambled eggs with salmon bits mixed in, from Catherine Spark

* * *

><p>"Are we there yet?" Sherlock asked plaintively, hanging off the railings as he and Mycroft watched the whitecaps on the Channel, the breeze ruffling their hair.<p>

"Now, Sherlock, I know that you know how long a Channel crossing is," Mycroft said semi-sternly.

Sherlock sighed, "I know, we'll be there in only a few hours." He swung from the railings a few times before asking, "Have you ever met our French cousins, Mycroft?"

"Once," Mycroft said. "When you were born they came to visit us."

"What are they like?"

Mycroft thought for a moment. That had been seven years ago, but he had an excellent memory and had been an extremely observant seven year old. "They are wealthy business people, Sherlock, and they are ostentatious about their wealth."

Sherlock grimaced; even though his own family were minor aristocrats, their seat in Yorkshire was never anything more than homey and often completely chaotic.

"But they also have a rather...artistic side," Mycroft said. "Intelligent, as well. It will be an experience, meeting them."

They stepped off the boat onto the bustling docks of a busy port city. Sherlock looked around, at first fascinated, then, becoming overwhelmed, stepped back into his mother's skirts. Mycroft almost smiled in sympathy; he remembered what it was like to be unable to process the sheer amount of data he was seeing. It had taken years for Mycroft to train himself to observe and deduce what he needed to. Perhaps he could make it a sort of game for Sherlock and begin teaching him as well.

"Sherlock, you're much too old to be acting like that," Mrs. Holmes chided him. "Come now, let's meet our cousins. This is my cousin, Henri Vernet, and his wife Simone."

"Oh, Henri, you didn't tell me your little second cousins were so cute!" Simone Vernet said, leaning down to be on Sherlock's eye level. "Good evening, little cousin!" She spoke loudly and slowly, evidently under the impression that neither Sherlock nor Mycroft spoke French.

Sherlock stared at her in open confusion, then answered in perfect and very quick French, "Madam, I am not little. I am seven years old." Mycroft smiled to himself; both boys were fluent in French as well as German by the age of six. By now, Mycroft had lost count of the number of languages he himself could speak. Then his face fell when he saw Simone and his mother exchange patronizing smiles. Glancing over at his father, he could see he would get no help there. He was engaged in conversation with Henri, and from the looks on their faces, Mycroft could tell it was related to the economy on the Continent, and he dearly wished he could join them. But seeing his father catch his gaze and wave, he sighed. Their parents would never see them as anything other than immature children. This trip was a waste; Mycroft thought, he could have spent this time studying the history of the trade routes to India, or the scientific principles behind Mr. Darwin's fascinating _On the Origins of Species_.

Sherlock hung back to join Mycroft as they made their way back to the Vernet's house, looking annoyed at being treated like a child. Soon, though, he was gazing around at the sights and sounds of the city, drinking it all in. Mycroft ignored it all; he supposed it was useful to experience other countries personally, but the separation from his comfortable room at home, with all his books and study materials was a dreadful inconvenience.

Mrs. Holmes did not stop talking to Simone Vernet, and later, Henri's mother Sophie, for the rest of the day about seemingly any subject under the sun. Mycroft had long known their turn for genius had come from their mother's side of the family - having known his father's relatives for fourteen years, he knew it wasn't from them. - but hearing the conversation jump from the art scene to theology to the resurgence of the Classical tradition, he was impressed in spite of himself. Every so often he gazed at the art on the walls, a good mix of contemporary and classic, and all in excellent taste.

Of course, every time he tried to join in the conversation, his mother's cousins simply talked over him. Left to her own devices, Mrs. Holmes might have stood up for him; Mycroft was her conversation partner at home, by sheer virtue of being the only one in the house who could keep up with her, and he saw her look at him sympathetically. But soon the joy of having adult company as well-educated as she was seemed to take over her mind. Mycroft sighed and listened in on his father's conversation with an English friend of Henri's who had come for dinner; while not the genius his wife and sons were, Mr. Holmes was discussing the civil war in America, and Mycroft was eager to learn all he could about its causes and possible ramifications.

They were interrupted by Sherlock, who had previously been sitting there quietly, bored. He lifted his spoon out of his scrambled eggs, looking disgusted. "There's fish in here!" he said loudly in French, and all the adults stopped to look at him.

"Yes, of course, there are little salmon pieces in the eggs," Aunt Sophie Vernet said, affronted at the interruption. "That is how we make them in our city."

Sherlock let the spoon clatter into the plate, sitting back in a sulk. "I don't like fish. I really wanted just eggs."

"What, like a peasant?" Henri asked with a laugh. Mycroft frowned, remembering how he had told Sherlock their cousins were very proud of their wealth. It was on display everywhere, from what they wore to how they spoke to what they ate.

"No, like a seven year old," Mycroft said quietly. "I'm sure you remember how fussy children can be about their food." Mycroft had never been so, himself, but he remembered countless evenings spent trying to get Sherlock to eat anything at all. His brother was the pickiest eater he had ever seen, and while he didn't understand it, he wasn't about to let his brother starve in a foreign country because his cousins wanted to prove they were cultured.

"Come, Sherlock, let's go find something you like," Mycroft said, leading Sherlock down to the kitchens. The busyness of the place cheered them both up considerably; it was much more like home than the stiff atmosphere upstairs.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes, and this is Sherlock," Mycroft said in French to the cook. "He's a fairly fussy eater, do you think you have anything that might tempt him."

The cook smiled widely, "I have just the thing." She pulled a large dish of chicken over, lightly flavored with basil. "There you go, plain as day, and I have some potatoes to go with it." Sherlock started in happily, and Mycroft situated himself so he could hear some of the footmen's conversation, which centered on the decrease of wages and increase in taxes throughout France. Their points seemed to make considerably more sense than his cousin Henri's earlier thoughts on the same subject.

"You're like a father to that boy," the cook remarked to Mycroft, watching him instruct Sherlock to put his dirty plate in the proper place.

Mycroft smiled a little sadly, "Yes, I suppose so." It wasn't that his parents were terrible; they tried their best. But Mycroft knew he had surpassed his father in intelligence at the age of seven, and there wasn't much Mr. Holmes could do after that. Their mother was so trapped by the role of manor wife that her own intellectual pursuits were her only escape, although she did try to pay attention to her sons. But the combined effect was to give Mycroft and Sherlock an incredible amount of freedom, or at least, that was how Mycroft chose to see it. It was better than seeing it as neglect, when all it did was allow him to cultivate those interests he chose, and train Sherlock the way he needed to be trained, to deal with the mind he had been gifted with.

It really wasn't such a bad thing, Mycroft thought. He and Sherlock had learned to depend on each other, anyone else was almost superfluous. "Come, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I expect they have a very nice library. Maybe they even have something we haven't read."

"Oh, I doubt it," Sherlock said, causing Mycroft to smile. No, they certainly didn't have any use for anyone else.

* * *

><p>AN I'm not sure about this one. I borrowed heavily from my BBC Sherlock headcanon, where it's obvious to me that Mycroft was responsible for raising Sherlock and their parents were well-meaning, but entirely unable to understand either of their children.


	19. Chapter 19

Prompt: ...Mycroft is invited round to a festive meal at 221B, from mrspencil

* * *

><p>A silent footman approached Mycroft at his usual seat in the Diogenes Club with a small envelope. Mycroft opened it with some confusion; he received correspondence from no one.<p>

_Mr. Mycroft Holmes,_

_We would be honored if you would attend a Christmas dinner at 221b Baker Street on the evening of the 24th of December, 1895._

_Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson._

Underneath the printed words was a handwritten scrawl he recognized as his brother's.

_I did tell Watson you disliked interruptions to your routine, but he insisted it would be rude not to invite you._

Mycroft rolled his eyes good naturedly; yes, he disliked interrupting his routine, but it was hardly an inconvenience to go see his own brother for Christmastime, especially since neither he nor Doctor Watson had celebrated the holiday last year, due to the Doctor's recent bereavement. Honestly, Sherlock could be so deucedly obtuse at times.

He'd have to get some sort of cake or something to bring, wouldn't he? At least then he'd be assured that _something _would be edible, although he did think he scared his young aide half to death the next day when he asked the lad for bakery recommendations.

Mycroft knocked on the door of 221b on the day in question, holding the cake and feeling decidedly ridiculous. The sound of voices from the first floor told Mycroft that everyone else was already there, and he sighed. This was going to be as awkward as every other party he'd ever attended, wasn't it? The door opened, revealing Mrs. Hudson, wearing a holly crown and beaming at him. Mycroft rolled his eyes. Even his brother's ordinarily respectable landlady.

"Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Holmes!" She said brightly. "They're all upstairs. Your brother will be so pleased you've come." Mycroft highly doubted that; his presence would likely dampen any festive atmosphere, being unsuited for social occasions as he was.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock called out when he entered the tiny sitting room (why his brother insisted on remaining in these rooms when he could afford a far larger place was beyond Mycroft's understanding). To his horror, Sherlock appeared to be wearing a Father Christmas hat, that he admittedly took off immediately on Mycroft's arrival.

"Merry Christmas, little brother," Mycroft said, putting the cake on the sideboard, where there were already two platters of biscuits and a pudding.

"And to you," Sherlock said, moving over to join him. "It's not very many people, as you can see. Only a couple of the Yarders, and a few of Watson's medical friends. I think they came mostly because they wanted to see the inside of the famous 221b Baker Street."

Mycroft, who had met several of the official detectives over the years, recognized Lestrade, Bradstreet, Gregson. He supposed the younger lad must be Stanley Hopkins, who Sherlock had rather taken on as protege. "That's Stamford, over there, and Anstruther, who used to watch Watson's practice while he was away." Mycroft watched Stamford in interest, knowing the role he had played in bringing Sherlock and Doctor Watson together.

"This is all Watson's idea," Sherlock continued quietly.

"Yes, obviously, Sherlock. I did not think _you _had suddenly cultivated an interest in hosting dinner parties," Mycroft said, and Sherlock grinned. "Where is the Doctor, anyway?" Mycroft continued. a,

"In the kitchen, carving the goose," Sherlock answered. "You can see we have no room for it here." He gestured toward the table, which appeared to be straining under the weight of all the food. "Ah, here he is now."

Doctor Watson had reappeared with a platter of goose, and everyone cheered. Mycroft smiled tolerantly. He expected most of the guests were at least slightly inebriated.

"Oh, welcome, Mr. Holmes," Watson said, his tone becoming more formal when he noticed Mycroft. "I'm very glad you were able to come to our little dinner. It's not very much." He looked apologetic, no doubt comparing their fare with what would have been served at the Diogenes Club.

"Doctor, I didn't come here expecting the Diogenes Club " Mycroft said. "I know your dinner will be, well, probably the exact opposite of that. Even I like some company _sometimes."_ He smiled to show Watson he was gently teasing. "And do stop calling me 'Mr. Holmes.' For goodness sake, I keep thinking I'm in the office."

"Of course, Mr. - er, Mycroft?" Watson said uncertainly, glancing at Sherlock.

Mycroft smiled, "That's much better. Now we won't get confused, as for some reason you still insist on referring to my brother as " Holmes'."

The effect was most entertaining, Mycroft thought, as they both turned bright red and Watson protested, "But that would be so odd!" exactly as Sherlock mumbled, "I can't call him _John."_

"Whyever not, you have only known each other for fourteen years and shared rooms for half that time. There are times I think Doctor Watson knows you better than I do! Now, where is the wine? I would like to start in on this delicious looking goose."

Sitting around the dinner table, Mycroft got an excellent view of what his brother was like to be with, and not from someone who thought of him as highly as Watson. The discussion soon moved to police work, which Stamford and Anstruther listened to with fascination. Mycroft could see the delight Sherlock took in proving the Yarders wrong, figuring out the solutions to cases they were currently working on. To his surprise, that enjoyment seemed to be mutual.

"You see!" Lestrade crowed triumphantly to Gregson, after Sherlock had named the culprit in a harrowing case they had been working for the past three weeks. "I told you he would give us the answer!"

Sherlock simply smiled to himself, rather than gloat, as he often had in the early days, Mycroft knew. It was clear that he'd come to view the Yarders as friends, something Mycroft had never thought would happen

Then again, he had never foreseen Doctor Watson's arrival in their lives either, and Mycroft was gratified to see that the man appeared to be enjoying himself, in spite of the black still at his cuffs. He watched Sherlock carefully, unnoticed by anyone but Mycroft, ensuring he was eating and looking satisfied.

"Looking after my brother is a full time occupation," Mycroft remarked to him. Watson started at being addressed directly by Mycroft, then recovered himself.

"Yes, I have found that," he agreed with a smile. "Still, I don't know what I would do otherwise. He has been a very good friend to me."

Mycroft was rather astonished. It appeared that everything Sherlock had told him of Watson's patience and capacity for forgiveness was true. Mycroft had not thought to find such easy acceptance - indeed, for himself he never had, but that Sherlock had was surprising. And very lucky.

"I want to thank you, Doctor," Mycroft added quietly. "I have never seen him so happy."

Watson looked at him shrewdly. "I didn't think you appreciated... This." He gestured at the table.

"Well, I can appreciate it without _needing _it myself," Mycroft countered. "But Sherlock has never had the same ability to go through life entirety alone, no matter what he thinks. He is very fortunate in your company."

"I could say the same, about him," Watson said. They both looked up as everyone began laughing, and Anstruther's eyes went wide in shock.

"I see you still enjoy deducing everyone, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I wonder if you noticed that Stamford had recently taken on a new position at Charing Cross." He gestured to Stamford's tie pin, clearly new and engraved with the initials "C. C.". Everyone fell silent, apparently astonished that Mycroft would join in their fun, when Anstruther, of all people, started to laugh.

"You didn't tell us it was a family trait," Bradstreet said.

"Well, I didn't want the competition!" Sherlock answered, although he smiled as he said it. Mycroft shook his head.

"I am perfectly happy in my own circles. I leave the detective work to you," he said.

One dinner and two very entertaining game of charades later, Mycroft left with an invitation to Christmas dinner every year, as well as a standing invitation to visit Scotland Yard. They were all very good people, and very good for Sherlock. It was almost enough to make Mycroft regret his solitary existence.

Almost.


	20. Chapter 20

Prompt: The chipped blade, from Stutley Constable

A/N Takes place very early in the canon.

* * *

><p>When engaged in my own experiments, Watson tells me I am quite oblivious to all else. I have often taken him to task over this; as oblivious is one state of mind I do not think I have <em>ever <em>found myself in. However, one slow Saturday at Baker Street, I was deeply involved in some studies of my own, while Watson was occupying himself with some medical billing.

"You see, Watson, after burial for only twenty years, the bone retains its solidity," I said, bringing the knife down on it with some strength. It only scratched the surface. "But, if I turn to _this _specimen, which has been buried for some hundred years, it has become much more fragile." Bringing the knife down upon it, it only took two attempts before it shattered. "The older the specimen, the fewer attempts I must make before it breaks." The thousand-year-old example had begun crumbling to dust before I even took the knife to it. "I cannot tell you how beneficial this will be in determining the age of skeletal remains, Watson. Do you know how many times a murder investigation was begun, only for the detectives to later realize that the skeleton they found was, in fact, centuries old?"

I was quite fascinated by the phenomenon, although I believe Watson was less so, judging by his response. "I'm sure it will be groundbreaking, Holmes. Where, may I ask, did you get the skeletal samples?"

There was some trepidation in his voice, and I remembered that the very first time he and I had met; I had only just finished beating a corpse with a riding crop. In his mind, there would seem to be no limits to what I was capable of. I shall have to file that away for later use – it could provide some entertainment when I have nothing else to do. Aloud, I simply said, "Don't worry, Doctor. I am no grave robber. These are some unused examples from the British Museum. They already have several similar pieces and were entirely agreeable to allowing me to use these for my own purposes."

Watson nodded, relieved, before turning back to his medical billing. I shook my head – some people, even those who are quicker than average in mind, cannot see past convention. It is no matter to me, and I turned back to my experiment, expecting the day to while away quickly and provide me with some useful data.

Until I brought the knife down rather too hard on one sample. I felt something wrong beneath my fingers, and looked in surprise at the bone in question. It had not broken in the slightest, but looking at the knife, I saw there was a chip in it, and a rather large one at that. I sighed, tossing it aside in exasperation. Now I should have nothing to do for the rest of the day.

"Something wrong, Holmes?" Watson asked.

"I have chipped my knife," I said despondently, showing it to him. "I suppose this experiment will have to completed another time, when I acquire a sturdier knife more suited to my purposes." I did so _need _a good strong knife, but the best ones sold for far above what I could currently afford.

Watson's brows furrowed, "Well, where did you get _this _one, if it isn't yours?"

"It is Mrs. Hudson's," I said, beginning carelessly, then slowing when I realized what had happened. "Oh, no, Watson. This is Mrs. Hudson's best knife. And I have chipped it!"

"And chipped it badly," Watson agreed, eyeing it closely.

"What am I going to do?" I said in some panic. It was only last week that Mrs. Hudson had threatened to raise my rent yet _again_. It was hardly _my _fault that chemical compounds involving sulfur spread an odor throughout the house, although Watson maintains it is entirely my fault for doing the experiment in the first place.

"You could explain to her the circumstances," Watson said. "I doubt she would want to use it again anyway, after you have been using it on centuries-old skeletons all day."

"That may be true, but I am not in her good books at the moment," I said. "I fear this will be the proverbial last straw."

"Come now, Holmes, you know she is very fond of you," Watson said, tactfully leaving out the logical next part; that if I was not someone she was fond of, I would undoubtedly have been thrown out long before this. I am well aware of my failings as a tenant, and am also aware that Watson has, more than once, had to calm her down and convince her not to raise our rent after some mishap.

"I could simply return the knife and hope she does not notice," I said hopefully.

Watson gave me a stern look, and suddenly bore a remarkable resemblance to my childhood nurse, who had often given me a similar look after some mischief. "Well, what would you have me do?" I said acidly. "You will agree it is not the worst offense I have committed."

Watson's eyes strayed to the bullet holes in the wall before answering, "That is hardly the best defense I have heard."

"She will never notice, I promise you," I said, slipping downstairs and replacing the knife in its place in the kitchen. Most people never noticed most of what was right in front of them, and while my landlady had thus far proven herself to be an exemplary mind, I was hoping she would fail to see what I had done. It really was not _that _large a chip, I thought. And I was considerate enough to wash the knife prior to returning it. All in all, I did not think there was much to complain about.

It was barely eight o'clock on the next morning when I was awoken by an aloud knocking on the sitting room door. I woke up blearily, hoping it was some urgent case to justify rousing me at such an hour, when I heard Mrs. Hudson's voice. "Mr. Holmes! Might I have a word with you?"

Watson was, for some odd reason, already awake when I entered the sitting room and opened the door. I looked at him quizzically; it was most unusual for him to be awake and dressed before ten on a Sunday morning, until I saw a program next to his plate for a medical symposium. Ah, yes, he had had been talking about attending it for some time. "You had better answer the door, Holmes," he said, over his plate of steak and eggs. "She sounds angry."

"Yes, thank you, Doctor, I can tell," I said peevishly, tying my dressing gown around my waist and opening the door to reveal Mrs. Hudson brandishing yesterday's knife at me. It was hardly the first time I have been threatened with a knife, but it was the first time I had been so threatened by my landlady.

"Are you responsible for this?" Mrs. Hudson asked angrily, pointing at the chip.

"I am dreadfully sorry," I began, but she interrupted me.

"This was my _best knife_!"

"I required it for an experiment, Mrs. Hudson," I said. "Which, I am proud to say, was a completely success. At least, it was until the knife unexpectedly chipped."

Mrs. Hudson sighed, "Mr. Holmes, I know you have somewhat unusual habits. I don't mind them, not in the slightest. All I ask is that you keep my belongings out of them."

My cheeks began to flush. Whatever else I might say, I was extraordinary grateful to have found so patient a landlady. Mrs. Hudson was a vast improvement over my previous landlady at Montague Street, and, as Watson says, I should probably not do anything to jeopardize my status here. I could feel Watson begin to laugh behind me, and I knew the sight must be humorous. Mrs. Hudson barely reached my shoulder, and yet I should rather face any manner of criminal than the possibility that she would throw me out.

"I shall buy you a replacement," I promised quickly. "Today."

Mrs. Hudson broke into a smile – she is extraordinarily easy to please, a fact I must take care to remember. "That will be acceptable, Mr. Holmes. Thank you very much."

I sat down to breakfast, buttering myself a roll and ignoring Watson's chuckles. "You have to admit, Holmes, it is funny."

"I suppose it is," I said irritably. "Only do not let Scotland Yard know the power that woman holds over us. I should never hear the end of it."

Watson made a show of sealing his lips. "Never a word. Now, there is an excellent shop on Market Street that sells custom knives. They probably have a sturdy one for your purposes as well. Simply tell them I sent you, they will ensure you have a good price for what you need."

I eyed him suspiciously. "Watson, how do you have such connections with a knife shop?"

"Holmes, I am a doctor and a soldier. Knives are useful in either profession, and I have shopped there frequently," he answered, as if it were obvious. "Honestly, Holmes, and you say you are never oblivious."

"We all have off days," I said. "But I shall call on them today, thank you, Watson."

Perhaps Mrs. Hudson would appreciate an entire new set of kitchen knives. She is, after all, the best of landladies, to be so patient with tenants like Watson and I (do not let him fool you into believing I am the _only _occupant of 221b Baker Street to ever cause a mess, or else I shall have to tell of the incident involving the felled inkwell and Mrs. Hudson's prized Persian carpet), and I have no wish to leave this little Baker Street sanctuary. It would be devilishly inconvenient to have to search for a new set of rooms, and perhaps a new fellow-lodger, when both are currently working out so much better than I ever expected.


	21. Chapter 21

Prompt: Winter Solstice, from Lucillia

A/N: Fair warning, this turned into a deathfic and a complete and unabashed angst fest.

* * *

><p>21 December, 1914<p>

My dear Watson,

It seems certain now that this war will not be over by Christmas as so many thought, although knowing the inner workings of government as I do, thanks to Mycroft, I was positive everyone was incorrect.

How I dislike being proven right sometimes.

It is dreadfully cold here; I have had to take extra care to ensure my bees survive the winter. I intend to keep my promise to send you more honey than your entire staff can eat. Please let me know if you require anything else – you cannot imagine how frustrating it is to be here, unable to take a more active role. It hardly seems fair, that just as I returned from my own role in this infernal war, you had to leave to begin yours. Not that I am suggesting you should not do so; I can see you bristling as I write this, Watson. But is it not time for the world to leave us alone?

That is not how life works, I know that. However, as I look at the night sky (it is far too early for it to be dark, it is barely four o'clock in the afternoon!), I look forward to the lengthening of days. Soon my bees will be awake and the weather will improve, such as it ever does on this rainy island. I cannot help feeling hopeful. This war has already proven itself pointless, perhaps everyone involved will realize that and it will end before too much damage is done.

Until then, I remain, very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes

21 December, 1915

My dear Watson,

I can hardly believe yet another year has gone by; it feels like only yesterday when I wrote to you that I hoped the war would be over before long. Now it hardly seems as if there is an end in sight at all.

We have had our share of air raid drills this month; each time we are required to take refuge in the church basement. As a result, I have come to know my neighbors far better than I have in the eleven years I have lived here. I can see you laughing, Watson. I am glad the mental image of me trapped in a basement with the entire population of Sussex Downs is so amusing to you. You will be grateful before long; I have ingratiated myself with the women who knit socks and roll bandages and such to send to our soldiers and instructed them to add you to their list, and to take extra care. You may find yourself buried in socks and scarves from now on; they seemed to find the idea of the famous Doctor Watson serving at the front worthy of more attention than either of us have seen since Mrs. Hudson was our landlady.

I need hardly add that I was extremely angry with my brother, and let him know it in no uncertain terms; when I heard you were to be stationed at the front. This after he had expressly promised me that would never happen. And, no, Watson, I did not _ask _him to promise me that. I know how you would have disliked that interference. He offered; saying there was more of a need for you at the hospitals behind the lines. But, as he said to me, this war has far exceeded what anyone thought it would turn into, and things have changed.

How well I know that.

Do please take care of yourself as best you can; the reports from the front are horrifying, even more so now that I know you are there.

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes

21 December, 1916

My dear Watson,

Please, do not worry about being a better correspondent! I know what things must be like at the front, and it is a wonder you manage to write to me at all. Be assured I am glad for any word I can get, especially now that I am no longer asking Mycroft to show me the official reports (you were quite right, there was no need to give myself nightmares reading them; I have been sleeping much better since I stopped).

I did tell Mrs. Hurst that you appreciated the homemade candy she sent. She promises more will be on the way. She offered to send you a cake, but I told her there was nowhere it could be stored in the trenches. It is a travesty, the depths to which we lower our soldiers in the name of this pointless national pride! To hear you tell of the mud and disease ravaging the front lines, it is a wonder the war can be fought at all.

The days will again begin to grow longer after this, but I am no longer fooling myself into believing it will lead to anything better than the last two years. Indeed, at times I doubt that this war will end in my lifetime. Tonight, there is as usual, a service in honor of the Winter Solstice. I have never attended, but after these two years, I have come to know most of the residents, so I believe I will go this year. They have all been most kind in taking you, and by extension, me, under their collective wing. Which was really unnecessary, as they all have their own brothers and husbands and sons at away fighting, but I am grateful all the same. When you return, Watson, you shall find yourself with an entire village to welcome you.

Only do please make it soon, my dear Watson. I have not changed so much that I no longer require my Boswell.

Yours sincerely,

Sherlock Holmes

21 December 1917

My dear Watson,

I had only just sat down to write this when the telegram arrived. It has been a week before I was able to return to it, and I realize that it is uncertain whether you will ever read it. Mycroft assures me that prisoners of war must be allowed to send and receive mail, but did warn me that in practice, this might not always be the case.

The Battle of Cambrai has been the main topic of discussion in the village for the past month; I confess I even told Stackhurst that you were probably involved, but I did not ever imagine this. I suppose it was far too much to ask that this Great War pass us by completely. I do not know why it took them so long to determine your status – I told Mycroft that if one more week went by without word, I would go to France myself to determine what had happened. Upon seeing the telegram at the door, however, I wished fervently that I had paid more attention to that old adage, no news is good news. In the few seconds it took me to open the door, I had conjured up all sorts of images of you lying in some ditch in France.

I regret to say that upon reading the telegram and finding out that it was informing me of your capture, not your death, my first reaction was one of pure relief. I am sorry for that, Watson. I know the conditions in any prisoner of war camp must be even more dreadful than the front, but at the very least it meant you are _alive_. I told Mycroft to make whatever deal he must for your release, but after four long years of war, he doubted that the Germans would listen to him anymore. I can find nothing to contradict him (not for lack of trying, Watson).

I will do my best to send you _whatever_ you need. I need hardly tell you that I am utterly furious they would dare to capture you, a doctor on the front lines of battle, never mind a veteran who is nearing seventy years of age!

This year's Winter Solstice service marked the first time your name will join the list of captured or missing soldiers, or so I was told. I am not there; everyone's sympathy would be far too much to bear.

I know they are praying for your safe return, and an end to this war. I am afraid I can only wish for the same. Prayer has done me little good thus far.

Yours,

Sherlock Holmes

21 December 1918

My dear Watson,

I hardly know what to write, and am trying to think of what you would want to know. The service (yet another Winter Solstice service, how fitting it should take place on the shortest and darkest day of the year) was beautiful. I spared no expense, my dear fellow, although I hope you will forgive me that I did not say any words. I couldn't. I could not distill almost forty years of friendship into a paragraph suitable for such a thing, and I had no wish to break down in front of everyone, as I surely would have.

My anger is less forgivable, but I cannot help it. I find myself railing against the situation we have been placed in. If only you not had been in a prisoner of war camp for a year, perhaps everything would be different. If only you had had not then agreed to stay to tend to the soldiers who had contracted Spanish flu – surely you knew you would be susceptible to it! But if you had not, then you would not have been Watson, and I could never imagine this world without you exactly as you were.

I still cannot. This world, without even the comfort of your letters – you were a faithful correspondent until the end, my dear fellow – is suddenly strange to me. I am adrift, much as I was when we first met, although now I know what I am missing and it is a thousand times worse.

Mycroft has been staying with me – the poor fellow needs a rest anyway, after these last dreadful years – and I see from the look on his face that he believes I should not be left alone. He is probably right. He sends away most of the neighbors; he knows I want to see no one. No one that is still on this earth, in any case.

We came so close, my dear Watson. The war had ended, it was only a matter of time before you were returning home when I received the word that you had contracted that awful disease. I cannot even say it is unfair; it is not. Your service likely saved so many who would otherwise have died, and I, after all, do not deserve the kindness your return would have shown me, after everything I put you through. Is it wrong to wish things had been unfair instead; that someone else had died in your place? Most likely it is. I do not care; I spent the war believing that when it was over, I would see you again. I do not know what to do now that I have nothing left to hope for.

I shall leave this letter here, although a stone is a poor substitute for you. I hope you do not mind if I do not come back. I cannot look at this as the only remainder of you on this world, Watson. I shall remember you as you were until the day when I join you, my dear friend. May it not be long in coming.

Rest in peace, my dear Watson.

Yours, as always,

Sherlock Holmes

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><p>AN I hope this is in character enough, this actually goes against what I think happened at the end of WWI (I do usually think Watson survived, and have written that elsewhere), but for some reason this is what my brain came up with for this prompt.


	22. Chapter 22

Prompt: the innocent love of a child, from KnightFury

A/N Another one that goes against my personal headcanon - I do think Watson only married once, but this is an alternate I sometimes like to play with, and it worked for this prompt.

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><p>Since his retirement to Sussex Downs, I had seen little of my friend Sherlock Holmes. It was not from lack of interest on either of our parts, but rather to the busyness of life. He was extremely occupied with his bees, and with writing all the monographs he had never had time to at Baker Street, while I had not only taken a new practice, but found myself once again in the state of matrimonial bliss. I had not ever expected to be a married man again, after my beloved Mary's death all those years ago, but my dear Sophie and I have now been married for almost three years. With the birth of our little Henrietta, I began to truly think I had been given a second chance at all I wanted from life, and I rather regret that friendships, even those oldest and closest, took second priority due to time and distance.<p>

However, during November of 1906, Holmes had agreed to come to stay with us for a rare visit, after I had told him Sophie would be gone visiting a convalescent aunt, and I would be left in charge of little Henrietta, then almost three years old. "I hope you do not mind spending the time watching me take care of Henrietta," I said somewhat sheepishly over the telephone (what a glorious invention, if I had to wait for Holmes to write to me, I should never have heard from him again).

"Watson, do you not remember my Baker Street Irregulars?" Holmes answered peevishly. "I have often found children easier to associate with than adults. There is no dissimulation."

I looked over at Henrietta, currently occupied in bashing her rag doll against the footstool. We had tried to buy to her nicer toys, but as her favorite occupation was determining how much destruction her toys could withstand, we deemed it prudent to only give her things she could not break. "I agree, but there is not likely to even be much _conversation. _Henrietta is still not speaking in complete sentences."

I could almost see Holmes wave his hand carelessly at me through the telephone, "That is no matter to me, Watson. I do not require much in the way of entertainment."

"No, I suppose not," I mused. I would have to tell him not to play the violin past eight in the evenings; it was most difficult to get Henrietta to sleep.

After three days of being in sole charge of Henrietta and playing host to Holmes, I was nearly at my wits end. Holmes was, to his credit, doing his best to be a considerate guest, and after so many years we did not need to be on ceremony with each other, but watching after Henrietta was a full time job, and I often found myself having to leave conversations in the middle to ensure she did not run into the street. I am afraid to say I rather left him to his own devices.

"I'm sorry, dear fellow," I said, entering the sitting room after putting her to bed. "I know I have been ignoring you."

"Watson, I quite understand," Holmes said. "It is only natural to want to spend time with your daughter, and she is a handful!"

"Thankfully I have had plenty of practice," I said, sinking gratefully into the armchair with a smirk. "Henrietta might be exuberant, but she has yet to set off firearms indoors."

Holmes grinned wickedly, and I headed him off, "You are not to teach her, Holmes, no matter what age she is at the time."

"Perhaps we should take her for an outing?" Holmes suggested after several minutes. "She might tire herself out that way."

The idea had merit. Henrietta was growing increasingly bored, and we determined that the next day we would go to the London Zoo. "Are you ready, Henrietta?" I asked. "Uncle Holmes and I are going to take you to see the animals."

"Kitties?" she asked, looking up at me wide-eyed.

"Yes, indeed," Holmes said. "There will be very large cats, and all sorts of creatures you have never seen before."

I believe half that speech passed little Henrietta by – Holmes was prone to speaking very fast, and rather more complexly than a two-year-old could follow, but she allowed me to take her by the hand and was quiet during the trip there, until we reached the zoo and she saw the tigers, given pride of place at the front of the zoo.

"Kitties!" She cried, and was off running before I even noticed. Thankfully Holmes was quicker than I was and sprang forward to catch her.

"You must stay with us, Henrietta," he said sternly, and her lower lip began to curl. "Besides, did you know your father once fought off a tiger just like this in India?"

"It was hardly a fight," I said. "I merely noticed one at the edge of our encampment, and I threw some stones to lead him away." Henrietta stared at me, wide-eyed and I sighed. "So, yes, I scared away a tiger." Holmes grinned at me mischievously, leading us over to the monkeys.

"Moneys!" Henrietta said, watching them leap from tree to tree.

"Mon-keys," Holmes said slowly. I was about to intervene; Henrietta did not take kindly to being told she was doing something wrong, but to my surprise, she screwed up her face in concentration and slowly sounded the word out.

"Mon-keys!"

"Excellent!" Holmes cried, and Henrietta fairly glowed with happiness.

It was rather like having _two _children. Holmes was easily as happy as Henrietta, going from exhibit to exhibit and excitedly pointing out things to her. He was the one who found the chameleon, averting a tantrum when Henrietta couldn't, an event that sent me into uncontrollable laughter.

"What?" he asked, seeing me collapse onto a nearby bench, still laughing.

"You are the foremost detective of your age," I said through giggles. "Finding a camouflaged chameleon!" I began to laugh once again as Henrietta climbed up on my lap.

"Well, when you put it that way," Holmes answered with a grin. "Are there elephants here?"

They went off to see the elephants, and by the time I caught up, Henrietta was sitting on his shoulders, clapping her hands at the elephants. "You are lucky, you know, Watson," he said to me in an undertone. "I did not realize how rewarding it would be to take such a place in a child's life."

"Well, you are her godfather, you know," I said. "You should be more involved in her life."

"I think I shall be," he said, putting Henrietta down and asking if she wanted some ice cream. I rolled my eyes – she was always a trial after having had anything sweet, but if he was offering it, then _he _could be the one to deal with the aftermath.

The next morning, when Holmes took his leave to return to Sussex Downs, I was in the middle of shaking hands with him when Henrietta suddenly realized what was happening and launched herself at his legs.

"Don't go 'way, Uncle Holmes!"

"Henrietta, he has to leave, or else he cannot come back," I said, prying her off. Then, Holmes and I caught each other's eyes. "Did she just say a full sentence?"

"Not only a sentence, a command!" Holmes said, laughing. "I daresay you will have your hands full."

"I blame this on you," I said. Turning to Henrietta, I said, "Uncle Holmes will come back, and we can go see him as well."

Holmes nodded earnestly, 'Yes, you must. Summer is a lovely season in Sussex, and you will have space to play."

"I'll call you to work out the details," I called out the door as Holmes left.

After that, we visited much more often. Henrietta came to view her "Uncle Holmes" as a second father, and Sophie often blamed that for our daughter's fascination with insects, crime and all things unusual. As for myself, I could not have been happier.

Until I began finding insect specimens in my butter dish and realized that everything old truly does become new again.


	23. Chapter 23

Prompt: Chestnuts are over-rated (but cranberries are brilliant), from Emma Lynch

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><p>"I do not know why you have insisted we attend this," Holmes said to me in an undertone as we made our way to Inspector Lestrade's house for his annual Christmas party.<p>

"Because, Holmes, there are many things that have changed in the three years you were gone, and one of them is that Lestrade became a very good friend to me," I said with a tone of finality. "You cannot simply return and refuse to take part in things that have changed in your social circle."

"Hmm," Holmes glared at me good-naturedly, but said nothing more. He was being most considerate whenever I mentioned anything about his three-year absence. Knowing him as I did, I knew it was the only way he could apologize for it. Likely he would never say a harsh word against Lestrade again (well, at least not _too _harsh), knowing that the inspector had been here while he himself couldn't be.

"Good evening, Lestrade," I said as we entered. Most of Scotland Yard was already there, and having a grand time, from what I can tell. I saw Holmes eyes widen at the sheer number of people Lestrade had managed to fit into his sitting room and I grinned.

"Didn't I tell you? Lestrade's parties are legendary."

"I can't believe you got him to come," Gregson whispered to me, watching half the Yard stop Holmes every five feet to shake his hand.

I shook my head. "It wasn't my doing. Lestrade threatened never to send a case his way again if he did not make an appearance." It had been quite entertaining, watching Lestrade, who reached no higher than Holmes's shoulder, come close to bullying my friend into attending.

Gregson began to laugh heartily and I reflected that only ten years ago, he would not even have been here himself. The rivalry between them had not exactly cooled, but become friendlier over the years. It struck me that Holmes had brought many of us together who ordinarily would have had nothing to do with each other.

"It is ironic, isn't it?" Holmes asked, as I joined him by the food.

"What is?"

"What you were just thinking about," he answered. "I never intended to be the force that brought so many people together. I am hardly a likely candidate for it."

"No, you are not much in the way of the Spirit of Christmas," I said. "I see you can still read my thoughts, even after three years."

"I was hardly likely to forget, my dear fellow," Holmes said. "You are extraordinarily easy to read." He smiled quickly, and I remember it was one of the few times I ever saw true affection in his eyes. Perhaps I was not the only one who had changed in these three years.

We continued moving down the food table, and as usual, I was impressed with the amount and variety of food Lestrade had managed to serve. It was more than enough to feed an army, and I suspected the younger Yarders would be benefiting from any leftovers brought into the office afterwards. I began pouring drinks for myself and Holmes when I heard him make an expression of disgust.

"Bleh, that is terrible!" I looked up in some surprise, Holmes may not be the most socially savvy person I have ever known, but even he is not usually deliberately rude, and this was an aberration.

I looked at the innocent dish of chestnuts that was attracting his ire, and said, "They do not appear to be rotten, Holmes."

"That is a relief," he said sarcastically. "They are bad enough on their own."

"Have you truly never had a chestnut before?" I asked in some curiosity. I knew Holmes had strange gaps in his knowledge, but I didn't think this extended to food.

"Is that what they are?" he asked, leaning in closer. "I cannot imagine why they are considered an indispensable Christmas dish."

I took a handful and crunched on them happily, "There will be more for us, then. Come, Holmes, there must be something here you like. Lestrade certainly did not scrimp on the food."

"No, I do not believe I have seen this much food in a long time. Certainly not in the last three years," he answered, his face growing haunted for a moment. I remembered how thin and gaunt he had looked on first reappearing in my consulting room, and I led him down the table, insisting he fill up his plate to the utmost. He began to laugh at my earnestness.

"Watson, I assure you, I am fine. You and Mrs. Hudson have done an admirable job fattening me up since my return. I feel rather like a pig being prepared for slaughter."

I smiled, "Well, I would be remiss as both your friend and the only doctor you consent to see if I didn't."

I was soon waylaid by young Dobson, a medical examiner I had semi-mentored during my time as a police surgeon during the last three years, and lost track of Holmes for the next few minutes. Until I felt a poke on my shoulder, and found him standing directly behind me with a plate entirely filled with cranberries.

I looked at this very unbalanced dish somewhat dubiously. "Holmes, what are you doing with all those cranberries?"

"Ah, is that what they are?" he asked. "They are delicious. I am afraid I cleaned out the plate. Do you think Mrs. Hudson would buy them if I asked?"

"Holmes, if you actually expressed a preference for a food, I believe Mrs. Hudson would fill the entire house with it," I answered, ignoring the fact that he apparent had never heard of cranberries either.. He had sorely tried our landlady's patience over the years with his eccentric dietary habits. She had often lamented to me over dinners sent back entirely uneaten, or instructions simply not to serve him at all.

"Where are all my cranberries?" Lestrade cried suddenly, and I sent Holmes a knowing look. He sent Lestrade an innocent look as the official detective looked over at him, and I could not help laughing out loud.

For years afterward, everyone always had some form of cranberries at parties, whether in the form or sauce, or pie, or juice, if only to see Holmes's reserve melt away in childlike glee. It was rather a trial for me, as I never told Holmes that I cannot stand the stuff.

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><p>AN Partially inspired by my dad, who has bizarre blind spots where food is concerned (he didn't try peanut butter until he was in his fifties, still has not eaten an egg at all, and only learned what cashews are last week).


	24. Chapter 24

Prompt: Watson thinks it's the 23rd when it's actually Christmas Eve. Bad things happen, from Poseidon - God of the Seas

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><p>The brightest spot in winter is always the Christmas holidays. The dreariness of the season is offset by the general goodwill shown by all during the month of December, and the knowledge and I found myself growing cheerful, despite the cold and damp weather.<p>

I awoke late one morning, arriving at the breakfast table to find Sherlock Holmes shoving the decorative holly leaves aside in search of his Persian slipper. He appeared to be in a rather irritable mood, and I reflected sadly that the Christmas season obviously did not have the same effect on everyone as it did on me. My companion's singular character meant that such interruptions to his routine were viewed simply as that; interruptions, and not times to celebrate.

I soon found the Persian slipper, buried under what remained of his index after he had spent yesterday reorganizing it, and handed it to him. I knew that his mood would be even worse without his morning pipe, and had no wish to spend Christmas with an even more dour Holmes than usual.

"Thank you, Watson," Holmes remembered to say, after several minutes puffing away in his armchair.

"Not at all, old fellow," I said, taking the day's newspaper and sitting across from him. He sent me an odd look, and I asked, "What is it?"

"You have done no Christmas shopping yet," Holmes observed. No doubt he remembered my rather large list from last year, when I had bought gifts for the entirety of Scotland Yard as well as the Irregulars. This year, perhaps because of the lack of success on the parts of both Holmes and myself in years past, Mrs. Hudson had simply bought those gifts and insisted we affix our names to them, leaving me with a much smaller list to work with.

I shrugged, "I have a smaller list this year, and it is only the 23rd. I shall go out later and tomorrow morning."

Holmes smiled oddly, and in response, merely folded my newspaper over so I could read the date: the 24 of December.

I jumped up. "Good Lord! How did I lose an entire day? I have to go shopping this very minute if I intend to buy gifts by tomorrow!" I positively ran up the stairs, and put all my military training to use in dressing as quickly as possible, flying back down the stairs, still trying my cravat. Holmes simply watched me go, and I believe I heard him laughing to himself as he shut the sitting room door.

The streets of London were crowded with other holiday shoppers. I saw more than one harried looked fellow carrying boxes and packages that were far too large to be easily managed. I slipped into the tobacconist's first, intending to get a gift for Lestrade (I had long since stopped buying Holmes tobacco, it is most irritating to have your gifts analyzed for quality, or lack thereof, in front of you), when I saw Lestrade himself standing at the desk, clearly buying his own tobacco. I backed up against the wall, hoping he would leave before he noticed me, but I had no such luck.

"Doctor!" Lestrade called out. "What a coincidence, seeing you here! Buying gifts, are you?"

I couldn't very well buy the man's Christmas gift in front of him. I sighed and responded, "No, merely replacing my own."

Lestrade nodded, "Every man should buy his own tobacco; how else is to get what he wants? I cannot tell you the number of times I have been given the weakest stuff by well-meaning friends at Christmas."

There went my idea for him. I would have counted it a good thing - I did not want to buy unappreciated gifts - if I had any other idea for what to get him. "Well, good day, Lestrade," I said, hurrying out as quickly as was polite. I shook my head. Perhaps an idea would strike me later, in the meantime, I would go get Mrs. Hudson's gift.

For our estimable landlady, I had settled on tickets to the latest opera. I had had no idea she was an opera aficionado until last month, when she proceeded to wax nostalgic to me about a long ago trip to Paris and the Opera House there. This, at least, I knew would be appreciated, and I headed toward the Opera House with a smile.

When I got there, however, I was dismayed to see the windows boarded up and several workmen standing around. "What is going on here?" I asked.

"Just some repairs, sir, to the walls and windows," one of the men told me. "The Opera House is open, only the entrance is off to the side while we're working."

Thanking the man, I went around the side, and was immediately drenched in what felt like an ocean's worth of water. Shaking myself dry, I looked up to see two more workmen in an open window with a large, now empty, bucket. "Oh, my word, sir, we're sorry! We didn't see you there!" one of them called out, looking stricken.

I glared up at them, but it was, after all, an accident, and I had far better things to do than argue about errant buckets of water. "Quite all right," I called back up, rushing into the Opera House and buying the last ticket for the last show of the season.

I do hope Mrs. Hudson will not mind being seated in the very back row.

Having succeeded in buying Mrs. Hudson something, and given up on Lestrade (perhaps there is an extra gift in the bundle our landlady bought for the Yard), I was left with only Holmes, and I sighed with relief. His eccentric interests meant he was, paradoxically, extraordinarily easy to choose a gift for. One only need find something related to one of his arcane interests, and he would then be occupied for the next week. I made my way to the bookstore, intending to buy him the latest dictionary of poisons, now updated to include many newly discovered specimens from Africa and the East Indies. It would, I had heard him say in his many hints on the subject, be most useful to him professionally.

"What do you mean you do not have it?" I asked the salesman incredulously.

"We don't carry scientific texts like that," the young man said. "They only sell to students and doctors, and not many of them. You would have had to order that special at least two weeks in advance."

I buried my face in my hands. Why was I finding Christmas shopping so difficult this year? If only I had begun earlier, or remembered that today was the 24th, maybe I would have been more successful. "Do you have _anything _that is similar in subject?" I asked desperately.

The salesman looked at me dubiously. "Not really, sir. There's not much call for that sort of thing." I looked at the other shoppers, all buying novels and popular narratives. No, I suppose in-depth texts on poisons were not the usual fare for the holiday shopper, and I wondered what I must look like to this young man.

"It is no matter. I'll find something, I'm sure. Thank you," I said, working my way through the shelves. Left to my own devices, I would gladly spend hours browsing, but I would have to go home and wrap whatever I found, and Holmes and I had received an invitation to dine with his brother at the Diogenes tonight. I would have to find something quickly, and I perused the nonfiction shelves, trying to find something that would appeal to Holmes.

No doubt, near-virtuoso that he was, he knew all there was to know about music. I was certainly not foolish enough to get him anything related to criminal history or detection - there was no volume on this Earth that could teach him anything on the subject. He was an accomplished historian, but only in certain areas, none of which I could see represented here. At last, sighing in defeat, I found a book on the science of beekeeping, and picked it up, hoping that something entirely new to his knowledge might suffice.

I arrived back at Baker Street after a journey that took far longer than it should have. I had immense difficulty in getting a cab, and when I returned I was wet, cold and in no good humor.

I opened the door to find the floor of our sitting room entirely filled with paper, and Holmes seated in the middle of it. He was frowning at a package, which looked like a child had wrapped it; there was so much string and paper. "Holmes, _what _are you doing?" I asked.

He jumped at my voice and hastily shoved some of the paper aside so I could walk. "Mrs. Hudson insisted if I was otherwise unoccupied, I should make myself useful in wrapping gifts." He gestured toward a pile of gifts. "Those are for the Irregulars."

"And these are for Scotland Yard?" I guessed, looking at the unwrapped pile.

"Indeed, they- Watson, do not touch that!" Holmes said, and I backed up as he cried out. He snatched the box in question away. "I haven't wrapped yours yet."

"Fine," I said, making my way to the armchair and sinking into it. I hid my own bundle under the chair, to be wrapped later, if Holmes ever finished.

"You have had some difficulties, I presume?" he asked some moments later. "I see you were unable to get Lestrade a gift - don't worry, I have one here - and that you walked through a construction site."

"You have no idea," I said, enjoying the warmth of the fire. I should have to get out of these wet clothes soon, but surveying the mess on the floor, I thought it unlikely that I would make it out of the chair, now that I was in it.

"Cheer up, Watson, it is Christmas. I know how much you enjoy the holiday," Holmes said.

I groaned, "Holmes, do me a favor. Next year, if you notice me putting off my Christmas shopping, for goodness sake, tell me what the date is!"


	25. Chapter 25

Prompt: The great present unwrapping at 221b Baker Street, from Poseidon - God of the Seas

Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates!

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><p>I shall always remember the Christmas of 1883, as it was the first that Holmes and I truly celebrated together. In the two years previously, due largely to lack of funds and a certain distance between us, we had determined not to exchange gifts. By 1883, however, after I had begun to accompany Holmes on more and more of his cases, we had become fast friends, and I looked forward to the Christmas festivities with a childlike excitement, having had no one to celebrate with the last few years.<p>

I do not know if my fellow-lodger felt the same way; his rational mind saw Christmas as an unnecessary interruption, but when he emerged from his bedroom on Christmas morning, I saw a smile steal across his face at the sight of the pile of gifts underneath our small tree.

"Merry Christmas, Holmes," I said. "Have some eggs before getting to the presents."

"Merry Christmas to you as well, Watson," he answered, seating himself across from me. "I did not think there would be quite so large a pile, I must say."

I surveyed him in some disbelief. I had reasons for not giving or receiving many gifts, having been abroad in Her Majesty's service, knowing no one on my return, but I knew well that he had acquaintances all over the city, thanks to his cases. Did he consider none of them a friend? Not for the first time, I felt rather badly for my odd fellow-lodger.

"Do not look so sympathetic, Watson!" Holmes said with a laugh. "I much prefer my acquaintanceships to remain professional. Aside from yourself, there are few I wish to associate with personally."

"I suppose I should take that as a compliment," I said, flushing slightly red.

"That is how I meant it," Holmes said quickly, not looking me in the eye. "Shall we get down to present-opening?"

"All right," I said with a smile, knowing how the conversation had taken an emotional turn he would be uncomfortable with. He settled himself in his armchair, and opened a small tray of cookies.

"I suspect these are from Mrs. Hudson," he said. He sniffed them and smiled. "Shortbread! My favorite."

I took the small note affixed to them. "'Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson. Enjoy! From Mrs. Hudson.' That was sweet of her," I said. "She is under no obligation to do that."

"Hmm," Holmes said, already on to the next set of gifts. For someone who did not have many friends and didn't altogether like the holiday, he appeared as excited as any child visited by Father Christmas would be."

"Ha!" he exclaimed. "This is from the Yard, no doubt." He showed me a book, a collection of detective tales. I could not help laughing as I read the inscription.

"'Dear Mr. Holmes, perhaps you can learn a thing or two from these fellows.'" I looked up. "A joke gift, I assume?"

"They are merely tired of watching me get the better of them all the time," he said, picking up a long, thin package. I smiled, knowing what it was. I was very proud of myself for having found it.

"Watson, I have needed a new walking stick!" Holmes exclaimed, tearing the paper off. "Thank you!"

I squinted at the stick in question; I didn't remember it looking like that, and I wondered if the shop had gotten my order wrong. I had ordered one polished black, to match my companion's favored clothing color, and this was a handsome mahogany instead. "Holmes, I think they may have made a mistake."

Holmes looked it over in confusion, brightening when he saw the inscription. "No, I am the one who has made the mistake. This, my dear fellow, is yours."

"Oh!" I said, taking the walking stick. It was heavy, and polished to a high sheen. The inscription, _Dr. John H. Watson_, was in gold near the top.

"And this, I believe, is mine," Holmes said, taking a second long, thin package and opening it. I smiled. This was the walking stick I had ordered for him, all in black with his name in silver near the top. "This will be most useful in my cases, Watson. It is quite heavy enough to be a weapon."

"That is what I asked for," I said. "The shopkeeper looked at me as if I had asked for a poison dart. Also, look at the bottom."

Holmes squinted at the bottom of the stick, testing its weight in his hand. "Aha!" he cried. "It is heavier!"

"I had it weighted in lead at the base," I said. "I remembered how the leader of that last gang of thieves simply broke your old stick in half, and thought it would be useful if it came with a hidden weapon."

"Watson, I do believe you have found your calling as a detective's assistant," Holmes said appreciatively. "This is the most useful gift I have ever received."

"I am glad to hear it, and you're very welcome," I said. "I suppose mine does not come with any such hidden treasures?"

"Actually," Holmes said, smiling. "Check the top, Watson."

I noticed that the top knob seemed to be loose and I removed it, finding to my surprise, a good-sized dagger hidden inside. "Holmes! This will be very useful in close combat! Thank you, my dear fellow."

"I remembered how you were caught unawares by that horse thief last month," Holmes said, his face darkening. I had had no weapon, and if Lestrade had not been there, and jumped to my rescue, I have no doubt I would be spending Christmas in the hospital. "Now _they _will be the ones caught unawares."

He and I looked at each other for a moment and then burst into laughter. "I cannot believe we thought of the same gifts," I said, when I finally caught my breath.

"It is rather ironic," Holmes said. "I must say, no one else has ever guessed what I would like for the holidays."

"There is one more gift, Holmes," I said, taking an envelope out of my pocket and handing it to him.

He opened it, his eyes widening when he saw what it was. "Tickets for the first London performance of Brahms' latest symphony? Watson, however did you get these? I have been trying for months!"

I smiled, "A friend of mine from the army medical corps recently returned and took a job with the London Philharmonic, scheduling performances. He was most kind in getting us tickets, and you can see the seats are excellent."

"Indeed," Holmes said. "Thank you very much, Watson, and you must remember to thank your friend for me. These are more valuable than gold, right now."

It was easy to see how affected he was, and I was extremely proud of myself for thinking of it. I was no music expert, and it was mere chance that I had heard of the success of Brahms' work in Vienna, and thought Holmes might appreciate tickets for it. He rarely, in those days, was able to attend all the concerts he wanted, and besides, he often said that they were not nearly as enjoyable on one's own, and in those days that was the closest he could come to saying he appreciated my presence.

Besides, he always provided the most entertaining commentary on our fellow concert-goers. I spent more than one outing collapsed in giggles due to his deductions. One thoroughly enjoyable evening for both of us was more than worth the price I had paid for the tickets.

"Speaking of music, I have been arranging Christmas carols for the violin," Holmes said. "Would you care to hear?"

"Indeed, I would!" I said. "Thank you, my dear fellow."

""Not at all, Watson," Holmes answered, taking up his violin. "Thank _you_. I had no idea Christmas could be so enjoyable."


	26. Chapter 26

Prompt: Perfect gifts are exchanged. What are they, and who from/to?, from TemporarilyAbaft

A/N Considering that I did a gift exchange in yesterday's prompt, I stretched the definition of "gifts" for this. I hope it works.

* * *

><p>Christmas 1890<p>

"Professor, I think someone's been in your office," Colonel Moran said, accosting Professor Moriarty before he even entered the door.

Moriarty sighed. It was bad enough that it was Christmas, with all the carolers and cheeriness invading the ordinarily cruel streets of London, but now someone broke into his private office as well. Beneath the aggravation, he found it in himself to be impressed. He knew who it had to have been; there was only one man clever enough to discover the location of his base.

"Let me through, Moran," Moriarty said. "I must see what was taken." The room was in shambles; drawers pulled out of their slots and left all over the floor, books strewn haphazardly about. Still, even at a glance, Moriarty could tell everything was still there. He knew Holmes could not have found his plans for his empire – the Professor was not fool enough to write those down, he kept those purely in his head. Moran kept the names of their contacts and henchmen in a small book that he kept on his person at all times. The financial records of the Moriarty syndicate were locked away in a safe, guarded by the Professor's loyal (and terrified) brother. Moriarty smiled.

"I don't see anything funny about this, Professor," Moran said.

"Do you not? I do," Moriarty said. "There was nothing useful here for him to take. No doubt he knew that, or else he would not have made such a mess. Childish. No, this is a warning. He's telling me he can find me whenever he pleases."

Moran paused, then said, "That's still not very funny, Professor."

"He's getting sloppy," Moriarty said, "After all those successes; stopping our train heist in Blackpool, destroying my plans utterly in Edinburgh, the only thing he can find to do to us is _this?"_ He nudged some of the papers on the floor, clucking his tongue. "I expected better from the world's greatest detective."

Moran picked up a book, only to have the pages fall out and spread themselves over his feet. He bent down and picked up the title page. Even sideways, Moriarty could read the title: _Dynamics of an Asteroid_. He flushed in anger for the first time. That book was the bedrock of his reputation; his prestige in the academic world. It was far more than simply cover for his criminal activities, and he knew then that Sherlock Holmes knew exactly where to hit him. The man was a far more dangerous opponent than he'd ever given him credit for.

"He wrote something on it, Professor," Moran said, handing him the page. Moriarty snatched it from him, reading the handwritten scrawl.

_ Merry Christmas, Professor._

_ Sherlock Holmes_

Moriarty smiled, "If he can leave us a Christmas gift, then I do believe I have found the perfect gift for him."

* * *

><p>Holmes POV<p>

Testifying against the latest of the Moriarty gang took far longer than it should have, and I stomped my way home, avoiding as much slush as I could. December was such an irritating month for so many reasons, not the least of which was the forced cheerfulness of Christmas. This year, I had turned down every invitation I had received, even Watson's. I had far too much to do with bringing down the Moriarty empire, and besides, I would likely be a dangerous guest.

I entered my Baker Street rooms, putting some coal on the fire so it would warm up. It would be far too cold to play the violin without some heat, and I desperately needed to think, to plan my next move. I knew Moriarty would see through my little present for him; ransacking his office and destroying his _magnam opus_. I had known that the chance of finding anything useful in his office was unlikely, but discovering its location had been a coup in any case. It let Moriarty know that I was getting closer to bringing him down.

That nowhere would be safe from me.

But, until then, he would undoubtedly be more dangerous than ever. A trapped animal lashes out, and the heads of mighty criminal enterprises are no different. I would have to be careful.

I reached for my pipe, and froze. It was not in the same place on the mantle. I knew I had left it right by the edge, as I always do. But, there it was, far back against the wall.

Someone had been here. May still be here. And I knew exactly who it was. I got up, silently, and scanned the room. There was nowhere to hide here, and I quickly moved to the bedroom. A quick but thorough survey told me there were no criminals there other than the ones adorning my walls. I ran up the stairs, to what had been Watson's room, now empty unless he was visiting overnight, and found it silent and cold. No one had been there in months.

I knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door, finding her engaged in her annual Christmas baking, and asked her if she had noticed anything unusual in her rooms. She affirmed that she had not, and I took her at her word. As she had once pointed out to me, ten years of having me as her lodger meant she was well-accustomed to keeping an eye out for unusual occurrences. She would have noticed if something was out of place, and if someone sought to use her against me, they would have done so before now.

I returned to my sitting room, surveying my things. None, aside from the pipe, seemed to be out of place. My newspapers, violin, chemistry set…all were exactly as I had left them. This was a warning, then, in return for the one I had given him. No doubt he wanted to show his _maturity_, in not leaving my belongings all over the floor, as I had left his. There were moments when I thought he and I could almost read each other's minds, and I once again regretted that such a very fine mind should have turned to crime.

I went to poke the fire, trying to shake off the feeling that I was being watched. Even though nothing was taken, it was highly disturbing to know that someone had been here without my permission. I was very lucky nothing had been taken and no one had been harmed.

I stood up, noticing for the first time a note affixed to the only framed photograph on the mantle. The photograph was of myself and Watson, taken only a few years previously. I did not remember the circumstances; something about publicity for the Strand, but I did like the result, and kept it in a place of honor. I took the note off and gasped aloud. The glass was broken, around a hole that had to be from a bullet. No doubt the bullet had wedged itself into the wall and would provide me with useful information, but now I only saw the very precise location of the bullet hole, and it made my blood run cold.

Right through Watson's head.

Fool! I had spent all this time thinking they were after me, and of course, they were, but it would take a genius like Moriarty no time at all to determine how best to get to me. I tore open the note furiously.

_Compliments of the season to Mr. Sherlock Holmes_

_ A present for you, in return for the lovely one you left me._

_ I do hope it will suffice._

_Professor James Moriarty_


	27. Chapter 27

Prompt: Holmes encounters a fortune teller while on a case. What she tells Holmes about his future haunts him. What did she say? From SheWhoScrawls

A/N Set somewhere around 1875, right after Holmes would have arrived in London to begin his career.

* * *

><p>I would have to cultivate an intimate knowledge of London's streets, I thought as I ran after the blackmailer I had been hired to catch. I had thought I knew them well enough, but at night, under fog, they all appeared the same. It was yet another reminder that I had a long way yet to go before I reached the top of my chosen profession. Not that I would give Mycroft the satisfaction of having told me so.<p>

We were entering, as far as I could tell, Whitechapel, that den of poverty and hidden crime, and I steeled myself and went on. I could not afford to be squeamish about where my cases took me. Not when this was the first case that had come my way in months, and hardly worth my time, I thought. The blackmailer in question was a low-level fellow, and I should have caught him already if he didn't have a superior knowledge of London.

I stopped, realizing all the streets looked alike and started down one, trying to determine where I was, when I suddenly walked right into a tiny old woman. "Do excuse me, "I said distractedly as I went on.

To my astonishment, the woman grabbed my wrist and held on with an iron grip. "Let go of me!" I said.

"Doesn't sir want his fortune read?" she asked. "After you nearly knocked me down, it is the least you can do."

I sighed, unable to escape the logic. Besides, maybe she knew what street this was, and how to get back to the police station, where I could at least give in my evidence ad description of the fellow (no matter how much I hated Scotland Yard, they were useful on occasion).

The woman grinned and led me into a hovel off the street and sat me at a low table. The room was covered in tapestries and grotesque statues, all cheaply made and falling apart. The effect was obviously intended to be mysterious. Instead, it simply appeared old. I pushed a coin across the table, sighing loudly to show my annoyance. "I do not hold with this sort of superstition," I said.

"No one does," the old woman answered, grabbing my hand. "Until they hear what Mother Ida has to say." She grinned again and I saw that she was missing several teeth. Honestly, I would have to tell Mycroft of the conditions here, there must be something he could do to ensure that old women did not have to resort to accosting innocent bystanders to make their livings.

She hunched over my hand, nodding. "Your life line is very good. Long. I cannot even see where it ends, if it does."

I resisted the urge to snort. "That only proves you wrong. No one lives forever."

"You think you're so clever, open your mind a little," Mother Ida snapped, startling me. "It does not necessarily refer to mortal life." I looked at her, confused. What could that possibly mean? "There are many ways for a man to live forever – in memory, by page, in historical records," she continued.

"I do not desire fame," I said quickly. Indeed, in my profession, fame could be deadly more often than not. Mother Ida simply smiled and went on.

"I do not see much in the way of romance for you," she continued.

"That, at least, is correct," I said. "I have never had any interest in such things."

"You are not very in touch with your emotions, are you?" she asked. "I do not even need to read your palm to see that."

"I am a rational thinker. I make my living in reason," I said. "Emotions are the grit in the ointment; they merely disrupt my thinking."

Mother Ida smiled mysteriously. "Yes, I can see that. Yet you will not always think so."

I looked at her quizzically. I could think of nothing worse than becoming prey to errant emotions, and I snatched my hand back. "Thank you, I think I will go now."

Mother Ida stood to her full height, looking straight into my eyes and I found myself unable to tear away from her gaze. "I see you are not fooled by parlor tricks," she said, her voice growing hoarse. "You will require something more." Her eyes seemed, as I watched them, to change colors, the washed out hazel changing to a deep blue and then to purple. I gasped, stepping back.

"You cannot be," I said, my voice shaking.

"Do you have so little faith in your senses? You live by them, after all," she said, coming closer. "I see your future laid out in front of you. You will die, not all that far from now."

I swallowed. I had always known it was a possibility, but hearing it aloud was still disconcerting. Then I reminded myself she could not possibly know that.

"You will die, to save your brother, and then you will rise again," Mother Ida went on.

I scoffed. "That is impossible. And even if it weren't, my brother needs no saving. He is quite capable of taking care of himself." Few people would have guessed it, but anyone who dared to challenge him would undoubtedly come off the worse for it.

"No, your other brother."

I stopped, "I have no other brother."

"Not yet," Mother Ida said.

I flushed, in anger and embarrassment. "I do not believe my mother will be having any more children."

"Brothers need not be of the blood," Mother Ida answered.

"What the deuce are you talking about?" I asked. "Of course they must be of the blood; that is the _definition _of the word."

Mother Ida laughed, "You are so sure of yourself, did you never think there might be more on this earth that you are not aware of? Have you never considered a connection of the soul? To you, everything is set in stone."

I looked up at her – when did she become taller than me? – and resolutely ignored the prickling at the back of my neck. She stared into my eyes for a few seconds more, then nodded, satisfied.

"I see now. I have heard of this, but never seen it."

"What?" I snapped, growing tired of this whole charade.

"You are incomplete," Mother Ida finished simply. "You are one half of a soul-pair. I wager you have not found the other half yet."

"I thought you said I would have no romance in my future," I said irritably, annoyed that I had to admit to taking any part of this performance seriously.

"I didn't say it would be romantic in nature," Mother Ida said sounding as annoyed as I felt "You are extremely obtuse, for someone who claims to be so unconventional. A soul-connection need not be romantic; for you it will not be."

I stared at her, "I have no wish for that type of connection." Not since Victor Trevor had I even had any friends, and given how that had ended, it was probably for the best. "I am meant for a solitary life." I believed this with all my being; I had yet to find a person whose company I found even tolerable after a few days' time.

"You may believe that," Mother Ida said with a shrug. "It is not true, and you will find that out soon enough. Your fate is intertwined with another's, and it always will be."

"That is quite enough!" I said, jumping up from my seat. "I have sat through your…performance, now please tell me what street this is!"

"White's Row, of course," she answered. "Good luck, Sherlock Holmes."

I ran out of the hovel, not stopping until I reached a well-lit street, shaking my head. I knew, rationally, that nothing she said could be true, yet I could not shake the haunted feeling I had been left with. I could think of nothing worse than having to have another person about me for life; I could barely stand my own brother after a day's time. I had worked hard to live on my own terms, and the thought of having to share it was distasteful to say the least. What force had the right to insist that I was "incomplete?"

Yes the phrase continued to follow me. The thought of being merely one half of a whole was more disturbing than I wanted to admit. It gave me a rather empty feeling that I was more annoyed with than anything. _I do not need anyone_, I thought angrily. _I am my own man, and will remain so_.

I looked up at the gas lamps, smiling shakily. She was merely an old woman, making a living in whatever way she could. There was no evidence that what she said was true, and I set off for home, feeling happier.

It wasn't until I unlocked the door at Montague Street that I remembered I had never told Mother Ida my name.


	28. Chapter 28

Prompt: Snowed in, from Wordwielder

Detective Inspector Lestrade looked up from his desk for the first time in hours, to see that the lightly falling snow had turned into a full-on deluge. He sighed. Likely that meant the city was frozen in time, people unable to make it home and all the transport stopped dead. It wasn't much bother to him; he had plenty of work he could finish if he was to be stuck here all night.

Young Sergeant Peterson knocked on his door and Lestrade called, "Come in," without looking up.

"Sir?"

"I know we're snowed in, Peterson," Lestrade said distractedly. "It's quite all right, just make sure there's enough tea for everyone. God knows we'll need it."

"No, it's not that, sir – I mean, yes, we are snowed in, but that's not why I'm here," Peterson stammered. "Mr. Holmes is here, sir. He says he has evidence about the Monroe case."

Lestrade groaned and put a hand to his forehead. "Do you mean to tell me we're snowed in with _Sherlock Holmes_?' This was a nightmare. He could barely stand working with the man for the few hours each case required. If the fellow wasn't such a genius, Lestrade would have gladly seen the back of him out of the station forever.

"Yes, sir," Peterson said nervously. No wonder the lad was stammering. Holmes could be incredibly intimidating when he chose; Lestrade himself had to struggle not to capitulate to the amateur's every demand. "And that doctor fellow, too."

That was strange. "Hmm," Lestrade said. "What have they been sharing those rooms for, almost a year? I would have thought the poor man would have run away screaming by now."

Peterson shrugged, "I don't know, sir. He said it was urgent, sir."

"Yes, yes, I'm coming," Lestrade said irritably, knowing the boy would get an earful from Holmes if he returned without the inspector.

"Ah, Lestrade," Holmes said, somehow looking none the worse for wear in spite of having trudged to the station through several feet of snow. "The Monroe gang's headquarters. We spent a good few hours tailing them, didn't we, Watson, to get this information?"

"Too many hours," Watson said ruefully. He appeared to be soaked through with melting snow, and was leaning heavily on his walking stick. Lestrade glared at Holmes and called a nearby sergeant to pull up a chair – only _one _chair, Holmes could stand all night if he so chose.

"Thank you, Lestrade," Holmes said as Watson sat down gratefully. "I did ask, but your sergeant seemed unwilling to take requests from me without your approval."

Lestrade glared at the sergeant; not Peterson, who never would have been so obtuse, but Larring, a new recruit who probably never should have made it even this far. He instantly felt guilty about assuming the worst of Holmes; whatever the man felt for his fellow lodger, he of all people certainly would have noticed if he was having trouble standing.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said. "We would have found this out ourselves, but I won't deny you've saved us a fair bit of work."

Holmes sniffed, "I am not here to do your job _for _you, Lestrade. "

"Now, Holmes," Watson said warningly. "Consider that if Scotland Yard weren't so…incompetent, as you put it, you would be out of a job." He winked at Lestrade, who found himself astonished into silence.

Holmes lips twitched as he pulled up a second chair seemingly out of midair. "You may be right, Watson. It is in my best interest to ensure Scotland Yard remains as it is." They grinned at each other, and Lestrade went to put the evidence away safely, shaking his head. He had never been so surprised as when he called on Mr. Holmes's new address to find another man living there with him. The Yard had been abuzz with gossip about it; and there was even a betting pool on how long they would last. Lestrade had guessed three months and, while he had lost, was merely pleased to have beaten Gregson's guess of two weeks. Almost a year had passed – ten months, to be precise - and Lestrade still could not figure out what made Dr. Watson stay. Was the fellow truly that financially desperate? There had to be some alternative to sharing rooms with Mr. Holmes. They'd all heard rumors about his habits; gunfire indoors, violin solos at three in the morning, the near constant smell of chemicals. Many a Yarder had been treated to complaints about their resident consulting detective from his last landlady. That this time he'd managed to not only find a more respectable landlady, but a fellow lodger, seemed to them nothing short of a miracle.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, as long as you're stuck here, would you like some tea? We have some scones as well," Lestrade said, emerging from his office.

"Yes, thank you," Watson answered as Holmes shook his head.

Lestrade handed the Doctor his tea and then said, "I don't know if you've met all of us. Gregson you know, and that's Sergeant Peterson over there, and Inspector Bradstreet."

"Good to meet you all," Watson said with a smile. "I suspect I'll be seeing all of you regularly. I'm Doctor Watson. I share rooms with Mr. Holmes."

"God only knows why," one of the younger lieutenants said, and Lestrade shot him a glare. It was one thing to gripe about Holmes among themselves, entirely another to say it in front of him.

Dr. Watson merely smiled, and Lestrade found himself thinking that this display of good nature probably had quite a lot to do with why he seemed to find it so easy to get on with Holmes. It would take someone of a very easy-going disposition to handle all of Holmes's chaos on a daily basis, and truthfully, Lestrade was still unsure anyone actually could.

"I apologize, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said stiffly. "You know we appreciate your help a great deal, here at the Yard."

Holmes nodded magnanimously. "I am well aware of my own shortcomings, Lestrade. I know I am not the easiest man to get on with. I consider myself quite lucky to have found a fellow lodger who is willing to live with my eccentric habits."

Dr. Watson began to laugh quietly. "Well, Holmes, you know I was quite alone when I returned to London. I was rather glad when I gained a friend along with my new rooms." He smiled, and Lestrade couldn't help smiling back.

Then he saw Holmes's face. He had never seen shock of any kind written on the amateur detective's features, certainly not the complete and utter astonishment he was displaying now. He was staring at Watson, wide-eyed, not saying a word. "Holmes? What is it?" Watson asked, looking worried. "Was it something I said?"

Holmes shook his head, "No, it is just…I have not had a friend in a very long time."

Lestrade and Watson caught each other's eyes, realizing that Holmes probably could count the number of friends he had ever had on one hand. Lestrade was rather astonished there had been _any_, and he suddenly felt rather badly. No man was meant to go through life alone, and he had never looked at it from Holmes's point of view before. He probably found it very difficult to befriend anyone.

"Then you are lucky, both of you," Lestrade said finally. "It's difficult to find anyone to room with in this city, at least anyone you can live with without wanting to throw them out the window half the time." It was so fortunate it almost appeared to be fate; that Holmes had managed to find the one man he could live with out of thousands.

"Oh, we quite often want to throw each other out the window," Watson said seriously, causing Holmes to burst out laughing. "That is only to be expected. It just doesn't bother us at all."

Lestrade shook his head, thinking for the first time that maybe everyone had been wrong. Maybe Holmes and Watson would defy the odds and actually last.

He didn't even realize he'd begun unconsciously thinking of them as a duo, Holmes and Watson, as Gregson proposed a poker game and Lestrade invited both their visitors to join. It turned out to be a surprisingly enjoyable snowed-in night, once they determined that Dr. Watson liked to gamble, and Holmes was most certainly not a poker player.


	29. Chapter 29

Prompt: Snowball fight, from KnightFury

I awoke, unsure for a moment where I was. Instead of the grey buildings and busy streets that I usually saw outside my window, I instead was greeted by a vast expanse of green countryside. In the distance, I could see water. I smiled, remembering now where I was. Holmes's little cottage in Sussex Downs, for what would hopefully be my first Christmas visit of many.

"Good morning, Holmes," I said cheerfully on coming down the stairs.

"Good morning, Watson," Holmes answered with a smile. He pushed the plate of eggs toward me and turned back to his newspaper, but I could tell he was glad I was here. His demeanor was much more relaxed than it had been yesterday on my arrival.

He had picked quite a pretty spot to spend his retirement, although I still could not fathom why he had come here. The cottage stood alone, off a side road, with fields behind it stretching as far as the eye could see. I knew from Holmes's letters that in summer, these fields were covered in flowers. Past the path in front were more fields leading to the cliff side, with a gorgeous view of the English Channel. The nearest house was visible, but a good twenty minutes walk, and so he was assured of being left alone.

I had been gazing out the window absent mindedly as Holmes read his paper when I noticed that it had begun to snow. I smiled, the thought of a true country Christmas taking hold. "Look, Holmes," I said, pointing out the window. "It's snowing."

Holmes put down his paper and looked for himself. "So it is, Watson!" He jumped up and pulled on his coat. "I have to make sure my beehives don't get covered." He opened the door, allowing a crisp breeze to flow into the cottage.

"Would you like some help?" I called after him.

He stuck his head back through the door. "No, but I would very much appreciate the company, if you don't mind, Watson."

"Not at all," I answered, taking my own coat and heading out the door. The snow was not falling heavily, but it was sticking to the ground and building up. Holmes's beehives were beginning to look like nothing more than small, snow covered mounds as he frantically brushed snow off of them, covering them with large sheets of tarp.

"This will ensure that the bees hibernate safely," Holmes called to me from the farthest beehive.

"Is that so?" I answered, wandering among the mess of beehives around the front of the cottage. They were haphazardly placed, and the effect was perfectly attuned to my friend's eccentric character.

He had apparently finished covering up the beehives, for he was now surveying his handiwork, brushing errant snow off his sleeves. Seized with a sudden idea, I picked up a handful of snow and began packing it quietly. I threw the snowball at him with as much force as I could muster, watching with satisfaction as it hit him square on the shoulder

"What the devil was that?" Holmes asked, turning around. I simply gazed up at the sky innocently. Holmes grinned, bending down to make his own snowball. "Was that a challenge, Watson?"

"It certainly was!" I said, backing up as he threw the snowball at me. It hit me right in the chest, and I burst out laughing, ignoring the water now making its way down my shirt.

Seizing more snow, I proceeded to run after Holmes, who led me around the back of the cottage in his efforts to get away. "You will not get away that easily, Holmes!" I said, looking around to see where he had gone.

"You forget, Watson," said a voice behind me, as I was hit in the back with more snow. "I am very well versed in throwing off anyone chasing me "

I turned around, lobbing two snowballs at him at once. "And you forget, Holmes, that I was right there with you on most of those occasions. You could say I learned from the master."

Holmes began to laugh, chasing me around the front of the house, where we both proceeded to use his beehives as shields. I had amassed a good pile of snowballs to use as ammunition, but Holmes's height meant he could easily throw the snowballs at me over the tops of the hives, where I had to come out from the sides to attack. That is what I was doing when a snowball hit me full in the face and I sat back in a snowdrift in surprise.

"Watson! Are you all right?" Holmes cried, coming over from behind his beehives. "I didn't mean to hit you in the face."

I was laughing far too much to answer as he helped me up. "Yes, I'm fine, Holmes," I said when I finally got my breath back. "The question is, will you be all right when I'm through with you?" I picked up a snowball, and Holmes's eyes widened as he started to back up.

Just as I threw the snowball, a sleigh passed by, and its occupants slowed down and stared at us. I dropped the snowball, somewhat shamefacedly. It wouldn't do for two respectable gentlemen to be seen having a snowball fight.

Holmes, of course, did not care about such things, and threw another snowball at me, catching me off guard. "They are simply unused to seeing me not on my own "

"Holmes, you really must get to know your neighbors," I called, hiding behind my beehive again. Few others would have been able to tell, but I knew he had been lonely this past year, cut off from those few he considered friends in London.

"You will just have to visit more often, Watson!" Holmes yelled back, throwing another snowball at me.

"Gladly!" I cried, smiling as my latest snowball hit him over the top of the beehives.

We re-entered the cottage several hours later, covered in snow and soaked to the skin, but grinning broadly like two schoolboys.

"I have not had such an enjoyable day in years," Holmes said, still laughing as he sank into his armchair after building up the fire.

"Neither have I," I answered. "Thank you for the invitation to stay, Holmes."

"Nonsense, Watson," Holmes said briskly. "You know my house is always open to you."

"I will remember that," I promised, as night fell, and Holmes and I wiled away the evening with some good wine, better conversation, and an impromptu concert.


	30. Chapter 30

Prompt: Ginger, from I'm Nova

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><p>"For heaven's sake, Holmes, why didn't you ask me before you made a mess of your hair?" I asked in despair, surveying the unflattering mix of ginger and black his ordinarily smooth hair had turned into. It was also standing straight up, and I could not help but find the entire effect incredibly amusing.<p>

"I have never had such difficulty with hair dye before," Holmes responded stubbornly.

"Perhaps that is because you have never mixed your own dye before," I said, eyeing the little pot of dye on the table suspiciously.

"It seemed a simple enough procedure," Holmes insisted, holding a hand mirror up and inspecting the damage. "There is really nothing wrong with the color itself, only the thickness of the dye. It will not cover my whole head, no matter what I do."

"That and the smell," I said. The odor of rotten eggs clung to him faintly, and I began to wonder what exactly it was he had put into the dye.

"That will only help me in my disguise," Holmes said, waving a hand carelessly. He sat down in the low backed chair by his chemistry set. "Come, Watson, let's see what can be done about this."

"You want me to do it?" I asked in some astonishment. "I know nothing whatsoever about dying hair!"

"Spread it on with the brush until my natural color is gone," Holmes explained impatiently. "I would do it myself, only-"

"Yes, I've already seen how _that _turns out," I said, beginning to daub the dye in my friend's hair. The bright ginger was eaten by his ink-black hair in a matter of moments. "Holmes, it is going to take far too many coats of this stuff to cover your whole head. It's much too thin, and your hair is too dark."

Holmes laughed in response, "And to think my parents named me for the unusual lightness of my hair color. "

"Most infants have light hair, before it settles into its mature color," I said absentmindedly as I tried desperately to get one particularly stubborn tuft of hair to take the dye. "Is that what the name means?" I asked in curiosity.

"Sherlock?" Holmes asked. "Yes, it is. You must have wondered where they had the idea from."

"I had no idea," I said. "I only knew I have never known anyone else called such." I didn't let on how curious I had been about his family; knowing nothing about them, I could only imagine what sort of people had given rise to my singular fellow lodger.

"It could have been worse," Holmes said casually. "They were also considering Sherrinford."

My hand slipped as I began to laugh uncontrollably, and if Holmes had not been wearing a towel around his shoulders, he would have been covered in the hair dye. "Holmes, tell me they were not seriously going to name you _Sherrinford_."

Holmes smiled up at me, "I am rather glad myself that did not occur. Is the dye holding, Watson?"

"No," I said with a sigh. "It slides off the moment I put it on." I glanced at the floor, ensuring there was none on the carpet. Mrs. Hudson would be extremely upset if there was, but it appeared to be clean. The only damage was to Holmes's appearance.

Holmes frowned in exasperation. "I simply must have an excellent disguise; the men I am pursuing are meeting in a club where I am well known."

I looked at him, confused. "At what club are you well known? I have never seen you attend even one." I was still not entirely sure that he counted anyone besides myself a friend; he was undoubtedly one of the most reticent and unsociable men I have ever known.

Holmes did not answer, as was his way when he wished to maintain his position of superiority, and I gave up on getting either an answer or the dye to stay in place.

A knock on the door heralded Mrs. Hudson's arrival with our afternoon tea, and she bustled in, her expression changing to one of horror when she saw her lodger's hair.

"Mr. Holmes, what have you done?" She cried.

"It is for a disguise, but obviously it has failed," my companion muttered. "Now I shall look like this for the next few months!" He appeared almost terrified at the thought, and I confess I had to stifle a laugh in my hand. Holmes was one of the most fastidious men I knew (when it came to his own appearance, that is; his living quarters were entirely a different story) and I knew how it would eat at him to have to appear in public with half a ginger head of hair.

Mrs. Hudson picked up the pot of hair dye and sniffed at it, making a face at its smell. "I think I know exactly what to do for you, Mr. Holmes," she said. "Only don't ask how I know, or what is in it."

Holmes and I looked at each other curiously before swearing ourselves to secrecy, and she hurried downstairs, returning about an hour later with a much larger pot of the stuff.

"Here you are, Mr. Holmes," she said, sitting him back in the chair and beginning to apply the dye to his hair. "It's only an old trick, but it does the job well enough." His hair was, indeed, changing to a fiery ginger right in front of my eyes, and I watched in amazement.

"How did you-"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, "You promised, Doctor." I smiled sheepishly, and Holmes laughed softly from the chair.

After only a few minutes under our landlady's skilled hands, Holmes's hair had utterly changed, and he put a cap on his head and slammed the door, looking like a young, somewhat untidy dandy..

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, but I could detect an air of fondness about her. "Sometimes, Doctor, I wonder what he would do without us."

I laughed as I went back to my newspaper and my tea, "Just don't tell him that."


	31. Chapter 31

Prompt: Holmes and Watson want to celebrate New Year together, but several circumstances keep the two apart. Will they be able to celebrate the beginning of a new year together or has Fate other plans?, by silvermouse

A/N Last prompt! I had so much fun writing these, and reading everyone's responses. Thank you to Hades Lord of the Dead for running this! I can't wait for next year ;)

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><p>It was a cold afternoon on the eve of the new year in 1887, and a boring day in my consulting room. Few, if any patients, had arrived, and I began to pack up a trifle early. Holmes and I had planned to meet at Simpson's for dinner and then move to a local public house to greet the new year, and I was anxious to be on my way. Since my marriage, I had seen little of my friend; in fact, I could not recall seeing him at all since the summer, and I was looking forward to our outing. Mary, lucky woman, had been invited to celebrate the New Year in France with some friends, and I had been unable to join her due to work, but at least it would give me the opportunity to spend some time with Holmes.<p>

Just as I was about to leave, I heard a knock on the door and my maid entered. "Doctor? Patient here to see you."

I sighed, sitting back behind my desk and taking off my coat., "Send them in." With any luck, it would be something simple; a cough, or a refill of a prescription and then I would be on my way.

"Doctor! I told you my pain was not merely arthritis!" I very nearly groaned aloud when I saw Mrs. Hendergast, an imperious old woman who was in far better health than any woman that age should be, and was constantly convinced that she was dying of some exotic disease. "It is snaking through my entire wrist!"

"Mrs. Hendergast, that is what arthritis does," I said, trying to keep my tone patient. The last time she had visited my office, it had taken me three hours to convince her she could not possibly have contracted malaria on her trip to Brighton.

"I do not care _what _it does, I want you to do something about it!" She ordered, and I resigned myself to having to give her a full examination. It should not matter; I still had plenty of time before I had to meet Holmes.

* * *

><p>I could see little point to exerting myself on the eve of the New Year, instead spending the day lounging in my dressing gown and learning a new violin solo I had discovered. In my experience, people are otherwise occupied on the day, and what crimes occur are of little professional interest to me. I had the day free to pursue some studies I had been putting off, until it was time to meet Watson at Simpson's. I had not seen my former fellow lodger for several months, both of us busy with our respective careers and he with his wife. It is most difficult to maintain friendships when not sharing rooms, there was far too much effort required for comparatively little reward in my opinion. That is probably I had never had many friends prior to Watson.<p>

However, I was determined to put in the effort tonight, and I spent much of the day in blissful violin practice; an activity I have far too little time for ordinarily. I was so engaged I barely noticed the knock on the door, until Mrs. Hudson began shouting to accompany it.

"What can possibly be the matter?" I asked irritably, swinging the door open. I could not have a case today, could I?

"Mr. Holmes, I have been trying to tell you," Mrs. Hudson said, looking anxious. "I have been getting complaints all day about your violin."

I rolled my eyes. Complaints from my neighbors were a common enough occurrence, and I confess I usually ignored them, as did my estimable landlady. For her to actually say something to me about it meant there must have been more than usual. "What else am I supposed to do all day, if I cannot play my violin?" I asked.

Mrs. Hudson glanced into my rooms, giving me a knowing look. "Your rooms could use some organizing, Mr. Holmes."

Surveying them closely, I could see what she meant. I don't think I had cleaned them properly in almost a month, and criminal relics, chemical components and newspaper clippings waiting to be added to my index abounded in all sorts of unusual places. I sighed, looking at the clock. I had plenty to time to clean the rooms before meeting Watson. didn't I?

* * *

><p>After Mrs. Hendergast finally left it was close to six o'clock and I had agreed to meet Holmes at 6:30. I gasped and positively ran out of the consulting room. Simpson's was quite a far way away, and I knew I would barely make it in time if I began right now.<p>

I made my way to the main road closest to my practice and looked in vain for a cab. There were few in sight, and those few were all occupied, not doubt with other New Year's Eve revelers. I held out my hand in desperation, but after ten minutes I determined I should have to walk. It seemed to take an age even to reach the end of the street, and I turned onto the next road in despair, wishing there was some way I could reach Holmes to tell him I was going to be late.

"Watson!" I heard a voice call to me from across the street and I turned around. Seeing Stamford waving gaily at me, crossing the road, I forced myself to smile. Stamford was a nice enough fellow, but he did like to talk, and I did not have the time for that today.

"Good evening, Stamford," I said. "Happy New Year, my good fellow."

"And to you, Watson," he answered. "This is a happy coincidence. I had only been thinking of you recently, wondering if you still saw that fellow Mr. Holmes. I read your novel, you know. I liked it very much."

"Oh, well, thank you very much," I said, feeling somewhat guilty. "As a matter of fact, I do. I am just on my way to meet him right now."

"Oh, really?" Stamford asked, starting to walk with me. I sighed and let him continue on. "You know, you should write another one of those stories. I think people would really enjoy it!"

"I may, in future," I said cautiously. Holmes had not been happy about _A Study in Scarlet_, although he had been most pleased with the increase in business it brought him. I knew I could convince him to allow me to write another one of his cases up (I even knew exactly which one) but it would likely take some time.

"Well, when you do, send it around," Stamford said. We were nearing his club, and he began to invite me in for a drink, ignoring my protests about my current plans, and I despaired. The clock was striking 6:30 now, and I hoped I would not have to keep Holmes waiting too much longer.

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><p>The reorganization of my belongings took far more time than I expected. Not only had I lost several important pieces of evidence that I spent much too long searching for before I finally found them stuck in the floorboards, but I had to rescue my prize collection of poison darts from ending their lives in the fireplace after accidentally knocking them over. I did not finish until after 6:00 and I pulled my coat on, rushing out the door shouting to Mrs. Hudson not to expect me home. I should have just enough time to meet Watson if I left this very minute.<p>

In my rush to get out of the door, I barely noticed the person coming up the front steps until I walked straight into him. "Excuse me, sir," I said to the fellow, glancing at him carelessly. About to be married, only recently graduated from university, worked as a medical clerk, with a harried, desperate expression that could mean only one thing.

"Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" the young man asked nervously.

I sighed, "Yes, I am. And you are?"

"Mr. Donald J. Prescott," he answered. "I'm sorry I could not come before now, but I have a problem I was hoping you could help me with."

I looked at my watch. Fifteen minutes past the hour, and this the first case that had come my way in nearly two weeks time. For anyone to seek me out on New Year's Eve meant their situation must be truly desperate, but I had no wish to cancel my plans either.

Mr. Donald J. Prescott continued to talk and I interrupted quickly, "Do you have anything against joining me for a walk and discussing your case on the way? I have an appointment I simply cannot miss."

The young man appeared surprised, but said, "No, of course not, Mr. Holmes." I smiled. With any luck, tonight I would have an interesting case and I would still have plenty of time with which to see Watson.

* * *

><p>I managed to get away from Stamford after only one drink, but that drink had stretched out to last almost an hour and I continued on my way in no good mood. It was now almost 7:30 and no doubt Simpson's had given up our table to someone who had actually managed to arrive on time, or, worse, Holmes had been sitting there for over an hour, assuming the worst. I smiled ruefully, thinking to myself that I should soon have the world's greatest detective on my case if I did not arrive soon, and I quickened my pace. The streets were growing more crowded with people, and I found myself bumping against more than one passerby. It made my pace very slow, until I at last managed to find a cab.<p>

"Take me to Simpsons Restaurant on the Strand," I told the driver, searching my pockets for money. I frowned. My wallet appeared to be missing. No doubt one of the people I had bumped against on the sidewalk was a pickpocket. I sighed angrily, "Never mind." I continued on, although I could not see the point anymore. I wouldn't be able to pay for anything once I got there.

"Doctor Watson!" I heard a young voice cry out. I turned, surprised to see Wiggins come up next to me. "Sorry, Doctor, I saw the kid who swiped your wallet but he wouldn't give me the money back, just the wallet." He handed me my wallet back, now empty, looking contrite.

"It's all right, Wiggins, thank you for trying," I answered. "You didn't have to try and get it back."

"Sure did, Doctor," Wiggins said cheerfully. "I'm a Baker Street Irregular, aren't I? You're officially under our protection, you are." He drew himself up, looking proud, and I could not help but be touched by his loyalty.

"Well, thank you anyway," I said tiredly. "You wouldn't happen to know a quick route to the Strand from here, would you?" It was past eight o'clock; it would be a miracle if Holmes was still there and not wandering the streets in search of me.

"Sure do, Doctor, follow me," Wiggins said cheerfully.

* * *

><p>Mr. Donald Prescott's case proved to be both long and exceedingly dull. I had determined the solution to his problem within several minutes of hearing his story, but was obligated to listen to the rest of it. I checked my pocket watch unobtrusively. 7:30. Surely Watson must be wondering what had happened to me by now.<p>

"I am at my wit's end, Mr. Holmes. I cannot make heads or tails of it, and I have no wish to lose my job," Prescott finished. "Can you make anything of it?"

Had he finished at last? I had never been so glad to send a potential client on his way. "Your employer is your fiancée's father, afraid to let on to you that he hired you out of pity. It is obvious." Prescott stared at me and u resisted the urge to sigh in exasperation. "Let me explain."

By the time I had finished with the explanation, Mr. Prescott looked most annoyed, although why he would be angry with me was a mystery. Surely his employer was the true target? This is why Watson is so useful to me; he understands these arbitrary emotional issues in a way I do not.

I had only just turned the corner when I heard someone shout, "Look, it's Sherlock Holmes, the detective!" I groaned. Why did they not simply hold a sign up telling my enemies my location? This sort of thing had been happening more and more often since the publication of that blasted serialized novel, and I found it exceptionally irritating.

Honestly, Watson is quite lucky I find it nearly impossible to be angry with him.

A small throng had gathered around, all clamoring for my autograph, and I felt obliged to give in. I suppose it was flattering, if also a nuisance.

By the time I had finished with all the well-wishers, it was past eight o'clock, and I trudged to Simpsons, glowering darkly at all I passed.

* * *

><p>I entered Simpsons and gave my name, saying that I believed my dining partner had already arrived. "No, sir," the host said. "We had to give up your table, but now here is another one, if you would like."<p>

Holmes had never arrived? I began to grow worried about what might have happened when he entered the restaurant, looking angry.

"Holmes! My dear fellow, I was getting worried when they said you hadn't arrived," I said.

"You would not believe what I have had to contend with this evening," he said. "Lost evidence, a case of no great importance and a throng of fans prevented me from being here. But have you only just arrived?". He surveyed me with his sharp gaze.

"Yes," I said. "Hypochondriac patients, Stamford, a devilishly good pickpocket...I have had my share of bad luck this evening. Also, I am afraid I lost my wallet."

"Oh, Watson, did you forget what I taught you about avoiding pickpockets?" Holmes asked with a grin. "Never mind, dear fellow, consider it my treat. It is good to see you."

"You as well," I answered as we took our seats. "It has been too long."

"Indeed it has," Holmes answered. "Baker Street is not the same without you."

"Well, let us make a resolution to rectify that in the new year," I said, holding up my drink in a toast.

Holmes smiled. "I will drink to that. Happy New Year, Watson."


End file.
